En La Esquina

On the narrow walkway at a blind
streetcorner where rushing morning
commuters dodge and jostle, a
young woman with a stroller, over-
packed, stalls amidst the scramble.
I’m behind her, she juggles a toy,
her phone (I think), some other stuff,
and a little blanket for (I guess)
the hidden baby, blocking foottraffic,
and a surprise wind at the corner
snatches the blanket away.
An older woman passing pauses,
snags the cloth as it swoops by,
hands it back, in half a second.
Graciasem>, calls the girl, juggling.
The woman, behind sunglasses,
strides forward, on a mission,
on to work, no looking back,
but says, softly (the girl
can’t hear, I hear):
De nada, mi amor.

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James Swafford taught English literature for forty years, mostly at Ithaca College in New York, and now in retirement he has begun writing poems. Some of his early efforts have appeared in Halcyon Days, The Ekphrastic Review, antilang, and the Avalon Literary Review. He lives in Toronto.