From Time's Square to Grand Central
Malea Baer


I do not want to watch this woman
sitting across from me on the train.
She applies mascara, eyes wide, mouth tight
maneuvering the wand, then squinting into her mirror.

I do not want to look at her
red beret, positioned just so,
black hair pulled into a tight bun.

I want to ignore her black and white hounds tooth coat,
immaculate black slacks and patent leather flats,
the gold circle pin on her left lapel.

I do not want to see the satin ball earrings
with gold clips fastened to her earlobes.

I want to look away
from this woman, in every way but one,
so much like my dead grandmother.

Lately, no one interests me.