She shuffles hunchbacked.
Gray tresses peek from her babushka,
each step a prayer. Cornflower cardigan
worn even on mercury elevated days.
She travels homeward
from the village. Stoops, burden
carried like a cross.
Winding miles along suburban lane,
hails drift across dandelion dusted yards.
She lugs plastic sacks.
Supper: a tomato, canned sardines
day old bread.
Graciously feeds the multitude
mewing tails curl round thick ankles.
She journeys daily.
So many pass her by, no
on her behalf. Mercy shrouds me.
Grinning, Mary accepts my ride.
Karen Jakubowski is a native New Yorker. She is married, a mother of two, juggles family and a career. In her spare time she is an avid reader and a part time poet. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming on Houseboat, Poetry Breakfast, Vox Poetica, First Literary Review-East, and The Barefoot Review.
Two pair of blue jeans hang precariously
clipped to hangers by their hems
in my overcrowded closet.
Standing before the open door,
I ponder the qualities of both,
wrestle the dilemma dubbed choice.
One recently acquired in happenstance,
with fabric fresh and crisp,
pulled quickly from the rack
without forethought to fit.
The denim dark and mysterious
invokes feelings of beauty
infusing me with an air of charisma.
If donned, I would strut in heels
with an exaggerated wiggle
wearing indigo, emitting whispers
as the fabric brushes
between my thighs.
The other shabby, ragged and soft,
has spent many years conforming
to the subtleties of my body’s curve,
knowing where to give way
and where to hold tight.
The material faded and comfortable,
no longer pretty or fashionable
is soothing against the silk of my skin.
Despite its tainted blemishes,
I’ve grown accustomed to its habit.
If worn, I would slip into sneakers
and go about my daily grind.
Karen Jakubowski is a native New Yorker. She is married, a mother of two, juggles family and a career. In her spare time she is an avid reader and a part time poet.