Wide-eyed,
Yellow-aproned property of ‘Washington Express’
Was a female Cherokee chief—one in a century.
A blessing—
Before the tunnel she stood, back to swarms of workingmen
Chasing the six-fifty downtown train—fifty cents less in fare.
Papers a-pile above her waist, a laden prism under the waxing sun
That germinates in all weeping men hope for life reborn.
“Good mornin’ e’erybody,” up she pulled today’s papers and flanked it to the side
Like a prophetess dancing during communion,
A contorted smile and true ‘thank you’ from her throat when finally an onlooker
Snatched the copy from her chapped palms of grey.
One less paper till work is done
One less paper till work is done.
All spring and summer, thunder and snow stood la Malinche’s daughter
At the gates of station with words of history re-made,
Words
That were merely intricate symbols to her unschooled eyes.