with the mta

bit to the blue collar,

buses absent themselves.

so you watch time burn

holes in the schedule.

hold your breath till embers

beam out of ash, numbering

your route.

as you read a lean text thru

the shades of a low battery.

a reminder you forgot the

food your mother sent you.

trekking back because you

know you had to eat from her

hands.

food made with truly medicinal

thoughts--there's no social distancing

momma.