Metal on metal shrieking
round corners, the car shuddering,
strap-hangers leaning
into or away from the pull.
Invisible me, sitting
next to my actress Mother
on the subway,
she wearing a black raincoat
open, just in case.
I wonder
when she’s going to start
then she does, mouthing
her lines silently, Windsor pink lips
stretching, eyelids batting,
her unlined face wrinkling
with sudden age.
Riders edge away,
staring.
Me wanting to yell
Don’t worry. It’s all an act
but I finger the Band-Aid
on my thumb.
Once she raised her umbrella,
tapping a boy on his head,
he poking grubby fingers into his nose.
See here, young man.
That just isn’t done
she intoned
with that perfect enunciation
as we sat in the airless metal can,
each of us startled into silence,
each wearing alone
like a raincoat.
Susan Eyre Coppock is a retired French teacher. Her poems have appeared in Slipstream Press, Panoplyzine, Pine Row Press and other publications. Her poem, “Other Falls,” was a semi-finalist in the Orchard Street Press 2024 poetry contest.