Amid a riot of pink and coral, a lily
raises its tiger head in the median strip
as I wait to cross the street. My mother
wouldn’t have liked the jazzy combo,
the too-bright colors. She sniffed
as we drove down certain streets in May.
Those dreadful azaleas.
A woman joins me at the crosswalk,
gazing into her phone, red fingernails
flicking the screen.
Is your mother still alive? I ask.
She shakes her head.
How did she die?
Emphysema.
Like my mother.
Our eyes fill with tears as the light
changes and we cross the street.
She’s still looking at her phone.
Of course we didn’t speak.
A man is leaning against the brick
of the liquor store, smoking, spindly legs
sprouting out of black sneakers.
I used to smoke, and it was hard to quit,
but I did because I’d watched my mother’s
coughing fits. I held my breath, believing
I was saving air for her.
Don’t smoke, I pleaded with him.
Of course we didn’t speak.
I’m walking by a man
who’s sitting on the curb
before the market.
Can you spare me a few pennies?
My mother would have spared him.
She was generous that way.
Me, I’m conflicted.
What is the right thing to do?
I love azaleas I say to the man
as I hand him a dollar or two.
Amy Gordon‘s poems have appeared in Antiques Magazine, The Amsterdam Review, Ekphrastic Review, The Massachusetts Review, and other journals. She is the author of two chapbooks: Deep Fahrenheit (Prolific Press) and The Yellow Room (Finishing Line Press). Leaf Town is the winner of the 2023 Slate Roof Press Elyse Wolf Chapbook Prize. Before turning to poetry, she wrote and published primarily for young readers. She lives in western Massachusetts and runs an after-school theater program.