West 37^th Street

                        For B and C

When I spot a cyclist, 
powered by something 
other than legs
(perhaps it’s her Sherwin Williams 
paint-sample hair), 
rocketing down the sidewalk 
of West 37th street 
and about to collide 
with an elderly woman 
who, bent like a comma,
has paused to regard
a patch of flagging daffodils,
her dress having taken
a cab from the 1950s,
I yell—no, more like scream, 
as only someone
with a savior complex 
can scream, “Watch out!”

The elderly woman,
annoyed, says to me firmly,
“I don’t need your help,
young man [I’m pushing
60]. The fucking bitch
should be in the bike lane.”

For the first time in months
I laugh, a big belly laugh.
It’s like a boiler being 
taken out of a basement.
The sun slices the tangerine
clouds. It’s a cat 
emerging from behind 
the couch.
“Welcome back, Mom,”
I say. To which the woman,
shuffling again, replies,
“Whatever.”

Ralph James Savarese | Balloon
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)