Benjamin Aleshire

At Place de Clichy
     the old woman
on the metro
     is my mother.
I can tell it's her
     by the way
she smiles at me
     as I tap
the burly oblivious man
     gently on the shoulder
so a small girl
     can fold a seat down
& sit. But neither of us
     can speak—
As the train grinds
     to a halt at St Lazare
like all the world is rending
     I push through
the clouds of others
     & leave her her
darkened tunnel,
     climb back upstairs
     into the light.