The Fieldstone Review

Brooklyn, 1952

We board the bus together,
me first, so I take
the first empty seat,
there’s plenty more further back
but that’s the one she wanted.
Me 10, 11, innocent
as a certain lamb.
I don’t even notice her
till she’s pausing beside
me, glaring down, grey-haired,
grandmotherly. “Kike,”
she spits, lumbers on.
The bus trembles.