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