my poem…

My poem

This poem shuffles out
onto the train
looking both ways.

Its sunburn scalding
the starched pink dress
scratching the swollen skin-
tender pink and sore.

It makes me swoon,
and softly fall
to the filthy floor

crumpled by the faint
I melt: a pillow of pink
my eyes close
the door opens.

the crowd steps over me
eager to get on their way…
the car empties
leaving a pink burnt plop:

the fourteen year old
victim of the sun
on NYC subway’s floor
is left to ride alone.

a memory from 1955
Jeanne in the mountains

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