Mother Metro
On the opposite platform, the Mother.
Her back turned, a grey shearling
coat down to her calves. Her head
tilted to read the map, her face reflected
over the coloured lines that cross
and cross it, like a toddler’s scribble drawing.
How can the Mother be here, in a tunnel
of the underground, when in reality
she is now giving a talk
to a group of primary children, now popping
new batteries into the remote control, now
handing over a note and some coins
in the fish shop, and taking the brown wrapped
parcel of pink-fleshed trout?
What does it mean to say
the television is closed down, the batteries
warped inside the fish? The Mother is here.
A powerful noise is coming down the tunnel,
the illuminated screen shows due
all destinations. The Mother mustn’t turn and see
across to this side before the train comes.
Where are all the children?
The tunnel howls. The Mother
reads to them, timetables and maps.
If they could only be deciphered she could go
and see them, wherever they live now.
On other platforms across the city, perhaps,
travelling the bright crayon lines
of the drawings the Mother keeps
in a locked drawer of the bureau inside
the pocket of the shearling coat.
