By Maxine Flasher-Duzgunes
Lonely bowery strider crossing the street with baby carriage. No baby, just a beer can sitting where it used to suck its thumb, a withered carpetbag where the baby food jars used to clang.
There was a mother in each of us before we began scouring garbage cans for the return ticket to our childhoods, but they were full of half-bitten falafels and disposable cups trickling cold café au laits onto the other precious things lost–mittens, apartment keys, emptied wallets.
And all we have is enough to fill our tummies and drain the scrap meat into the vents beneath our sleeping bags, the whoosh of subway warmth, and its routine departure.
Couldn’t we sleep with our thumbs in our mouths?— perhaps we weren’t distorted by the thrum of the trains passing well below our thoughts. If only the rails would disconnect from us and let our hands search freely in a garbage can for meaning we call a roof over our heads.