On a supermarket lot

in Berkeley

long after bullhorns

in the days of rage,

feeling aged as asphalt,

no mom or aunt left

to phone for recipes,

I wait for a grocery cart

to be returned


Leaning on its handle

as she shuffles,

she inches between

grids of cars nudging

a cart that limps,

crispy hair under crumpled cap,

edges in my direction

with a smile I might have

seen in another sunlight,

a wink, and if I ask for one,

maybe a little kiss


Hello again, mother.

The afterlife becomes you