Waiting

 My mother’s motor is always racing. 

Get going! Hurry up! She's a blitz.  

But I keep staring at the wet pavement,

I am counting cracks and maple bark

soaking in their sweet sweat, I'm far inside

the humming world

and before I know it I’m flat in the street,

a motorcycle wheel spinning on my back 

on Columbus Avenue, the driver 

kneeling and praying beside my head.

I'd run too fast across the street--

hadn't dared to keep my mother waiting.

And now I hurry her along. 

Time to go! Let's not be late! 

Now the widow stands on her one good leg, 

chain-smoking on the porch, 

coat on, doors locked, impatient for this ride.

I fold her walker, hear her grunting, hear the lowering

of her crippled self into my car, hear the nervous 

hurried motion from not wanting to keep me waiting. 

I could have touched her with my palm. 

I could have have said, Please take your time.