It is no real shelter for us, this place where
waiting for a bus is as regular as marriage,
where the big news is whether something is coming,
something to carry us away finally, the main activity
craning necks, shuffling feet, exasperated turns of the wrist,


no real shelter from the lurid heat rising from asphalt
determined to devour us, or from the poorer
than thous, hands outstretched as if money will drop
like long fly balls into their upturned palms,


or the woman creeping slowly across
the wide intersection now, my mother,
my god, my mother, so much older
and slower than I remembered, frailty
with a cane and a scowl, one hand
waving off the world like a mosquito.


I borrow the sports page, pretend for a minute
that there is news beyond this news, that the
incessant car horn and small shrill voice belong
to someone else, someone more distant, that
the Giants tried but failed, and if they can’t win
then who among us can?