Irene Sipos

Tired

Sitting across the aisle
on the B train
I look at the row of weary faces

various shapes, sizes, colors, ages,
a horizontal explication of what it means
to have woken many mornings

to brave routine, to leave concerns at home
along with scattered laundry and unwashed
dishes to head for same/same at work.

I picture each of you, one at a time. I try to
observe without you knowing and suddenly I
see round, soft faces, no creases in foreheads,

no wrinkles like parentheses around eyes, no down
turned mouths, no slumped shoulders. I see the plump
babies you once were. And with that, a rush of hoping

that you were affectionately held on generous laps, that
you were sung tender songs, that you were offered
a bowl of blueberries as initiation to the messy pleasures

of this world. I hope that occasionally you reach back,
even if only briefly to recall your beginning self as a
visitor new to the planet, unencumbered and dear.


Stones

I place a small
stone on my father’s
marker flat to the ground
to say, your memory lasts
solid and enduring.

I place a small
stone on my father’s
marker flat to the ground
to say, rest peacefully
no need to ache and wander.

I place a small
stone on my father’s
marker flat to the ground
to say, this pebble, your name,
is carried in God’s sling

as long ago the stones of shepherds
tallied with the numbers
of the flock for safe-keeping
across mountain tops. I catch
strains of an ancient song as

I place a small
stone on my father’s
marker flat to the ground, that says,
There are men with hearts of stone
and stones with hearts of men.


That Guy You Used to Work with at the Bakery

That guy you used to work with at the bakery,
that character who used to get fired and rehired
all the time, who used to call you Miss Elmwood,
stopped me on the street the other day. Hey, do
you remember me? He told me he was fired
from the new joint, the really sweet place
that just opened on the water. A girl’s house,
he said, I was at a girl’s house, and it was stupid.
He said he’s still at the old bakery Tuesday and Thursday
but the new owners, it just ain’t the same plus two buses there
and back. He said he lives near the new joint where
he got to eat great food. Stupid, he said. He asked where
you are and when I told him Boulder he whistled, That’s far,
she done good! We shook hands and he said, If you want
me to read poems for your class, just call me, all right?.
I’d be happy to do it Just call me.
Two dollars a poem!


About the Author

Irene Sipos earned her Master of Arts in the legendary 1970s English Department of SUNY University at Buffalo. She recently retired from SUNY Buffalo State where she taught in the English Department and the College Writing Program and was a co-founder of Buffalo State's Rooftop Poetry Club.

Her work has appeared in Lilith Magazine, The Comstock Review, Earth's Daughters, Buffalo Poets Against War, Burchfield Penney Newsletter, The Jewish Journal of Western New York, Artvoice,The Owl Light News, Buffalo News, as a Park Street Press broadside and in the anthology, A Celebration of Western New York Poets. Her chapette, Poem... and other Poems, is No.12 in the Buffalo Ochre Papers. She was a finalist in the 2004 Comstock Review Awards Issue and the 2015 Jesse Bryce Niles Chapbook Contest. Recently Irene published a book of poems titled Stones.

Currently, Irene works at the Writing Center at Buffalo State and is a freelance editor and tutor.

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