by Barbara Draper
It’s afternoon as I sit looking out the library window—
across the street a testy wind snaps a line-up of flags—
the first for Ukraine, the next to remember the MIAs and POWs,
the next to bring them home, and finally, an American flag.
Earlier this morning as I stood on a corner, a whistle
around my neck, on look-out for ICE,
an Hispanic mom, holding her daughter’s hand,
walking her safely to school,
passes by, touches my sleeve
and thanks me.
Me of the privileged, white variety,
grandmotherly, sure in my safety.
Tears welled up—
for her or for me?
The unfairness, the enigma, the grace she gave
with her great big heart. She touching me.
Barbara Draper’s poems have been published in Poetry East, Potomac Review, Rust + Moth and Sow’s Ear. She has authored one book of poems, Sometimes a Door. She lives in the Minneapolis area and is active in climate change work as well as running after three grandchildren.
