Tired by Irene Sipos

Sitting across the aisle

on the B train

I look at the row of weary faces

various shapes, sizes, colors, ages,

a horizontal explication of what it means

to have woken many mornings

to brave routine, to leave concerns at home

along with scattered laundry and unwashed

dishes to head for same/same at work.

I picture each of you, one at a time. I try to

observe without you knowing and suddenly I

see round, soft faces, no creases in foreheads,

no wrinkles like parentheses around eyes, no down-

turned mouths, no slumped shoulders. I see the plump

babies you once were. And with that, a rush of hoping

that you were affectionally held on generous laps, that

you were sung tender songs, that you were offered

a bowl of blueberries as initiation to the messy pleasures

of this world. I hope that occasionally you reach back,

even if only briefly to recall your beginning self as a

visitor new to the planet, unencumbered and dear.