Day 15: Experiment with a poetic form. Break all the rules! Not sure where to start? http://bit.ly/3JIt9K might help.
I went with a blues poem, and I’d like to call it “She,” dedicated to the homeless woman who was across from me on the A from Fulton Street to 125th Street tonight.
She sits on the beat-up orange seat
on the Bronx-bound A,
an elusive empty seat beside her.
Her clothes are tattered and dirty,
a filthy knit hat is glued to her greasy hair,
and she clutches a mountain of plastic bags to her breast.
Commuter’s eyes light up seeing that riderless seat,
thankfully sinking their Monday-weary bones down beside her,
until her heady scent moves stranger after stranger further down the train.
The stations breeze by, people discreetly cover their noses,
and yet, she sits tall, almost stoic and heroic, gazing out the dirty, cracked window
until she falls asleep, chin to chest, just before we reached 125th Street.