Monday Poem

Tabula Rasas
Jim CullenyImage_tabularasa_2

In our town
new mothers spring up like weeds.
They roll fold-up strollers
along Bridge Street or
tote sleeping babes that loll like
tot marsupials in sacks
strapped across breasts:
gene parachutes
trussed over shoulders
and buckled in back.

A moment ago
these moms were tot
marsupials too.

Now, out of nowhere–
ignorant as saints or
immune from despair, or both–
they come toting or pushing
mute futures as if headlines
had no place in their dreams;
as if their children
were joyful counterweights
to the evening news,
brimming with hope as tabula rasas,
promising as a new day.