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

 

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