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.