Penelope Weiss

A Bushel of Tears

I was hiding under a bushel of tears when my uncle Albert, the funny one, 
who played viola and wrote plays that never got produced, 

and who’s been dead probably a couple of decades now, said to me, 
“Get up, girl, and stop your crying. Get up and stop that nonsense. 

“It’s ridiculous, don’t add to the water 
under the bridge of the pandemic unless you donate it to California, 

“and since you’re on the other side of the continent, that’s unlikely,
unless you rent an RV with a bathtub and drive there double time

“and that’s unlikely, too, because driving isn’t your thing
and who can blame you, growing up in New York City,

where you don’t need a car to get anywhere anyhow?”
I stopped crying immediately, if not sooner, as my mother used to say.



Litany of M

I take the train from Rutland, Vermont,
over the old tracks, before they turn into New York State.

I am meticulous. I fix, I count.
I am mellifluous. I sing, I praise.

I am metabolic. I rise, I fall.
I am malthusian. I worry. I scold.

I am meretricious. Don’t mock me.
I am monotonous. Don’t interrupt me.

I am messy. I spill droplets of virus along the tracks.
I metastasize. I take over the stations.

After Troy, I enter Albany. Onward to New York City.
I can hardly wait.




Penelope Weiss grew up in New York City and now lives in Shrewsbury, Vermont. Storiana, her collection 
of stories, was published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing and is available on Amazon.
 
 

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