National Poetry Month Day 3


when I hear a lone voice cut through the peace and quiet
of the fifteen minute kind-of-late night ride home

shouting demands and grievances
to some invisible witness of her fury

and I crane my neck to learn the identity
of the slightly-off, possibly-having-a-bad-day,

the one making everyone else
shift about uncomfortably
clear throats
roll eyes

and I catch a glimpse
of her reflection
in the train car window

and realize
she’s white

I breathe a sigh of relief

and thank the gods
she’s not one of ours…

that’s what it’s like
riding the Hoboken Path
while brown

April is National Poetry Month – one of my favorite times of year, where I attempt to write a poem every day. I spent a week in Paris, so I’m already behind, but determined to catch up and write thirty poems. They won’t be perfect, they never are, but they’ll be here, every day of April.

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