by Linda Umans

Slingbacks and clingy skirt
clop-clopping toward the train
seeing myself ridiculous,
dressed-up horse on a
dusty Sicilian road.

Rolling hips, sexual
interest an absentee,
not shocking these days, but
vivid for the sad ride home.
Too bad I’m just recalling
a Leonard Cohen lyric,
now mine, the horror 
and comfort of I’ll
never have to lose it again.


Still 
maybe 
many clouds to come
for me
in the C train container
before it becomes a coral reef.

Or maybe 
this imagined end: 

I can take a seat, 
be a George Segal figure
reading eternally,
while sea bass, bluefish, flounder,
mussels, swim
attach around.

Linda Umans taught for many years in the public schools of New York City where she lives and writes. Recent publications include poems in Spillway, Composite {Arts Magazine}, DIALOGIST, The Maine Review, Gris-Gris, The Broadkill Review, 2 Bridges Review, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Seneca Review, and pieces in Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood.