Vox Populi
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Jennifer L. Freed: Even in Unkind Times
Even in Unkind Times
This can still happen: On the bus, say,
on the stop-and-go morning commute.
The way, after the stop at Spruce and Hyde,
after the driver has closed the door,
started on down the block, he sees in the mirror
the man asleep in a third row seat—
the man, like him, late thirties, scuffed boots.
Mouth fallen open, head to one side.
The driver pulls over, parks, walks back
to rest a big hand on the sleeping man’s arm.
The man’s eyes snap open, mouth closed.
Didja wanna get off back there? asks the driver,
and the man looks around, Oh yeah. Oh shit.
Then he catches the eye of the pink-scarved lady
in the seat beside his. Sorry, sorry, he says,
and she smiles, waves his sorry away,
and Thank you, he says, to no one, to everyone,
as he gathers himself up and follows the driver
to the front of the bus. This can happen:
a day nudged to one side by the weight of a hand.
At the door, the man turns. Thanks, bro’. You saved me.
~~
Upon Seeing an Obituary
I just saw her last summer, sat two rows behind her
on a folding chair. Stared at the knobs of spine
protruding from beneath her tied-back hair
and wondered if she was indeed
the woman I’d met twice before. Wondered
if I should have greeted her as she walked by.
Then, how warmly she greeted me
when the vows were done, the champagne
poured, the guests all mingling in the garden.
She might have leaned in closer toward
the others in her circle. She might, like them,
have simply nodded as I passed,
but she turned toward me,
held out her hand,
Hello. How are you?
I should have known. The angularity of her jaw,
like my brother’s, before he died.
The shadows in her cheeks, beneath her eyes.
But I was caught by a compulsion to explain
why I’d not said hello before.
I wasn’t sure…you’ve lost weight…
How sharply, then, she turned her head,
as though her name were being called.
How long, the stillness of her pose. And her poise,
when she faced me again, when she spoke—the summer
heat, the happy bride. It’s with me still, the kindness
of her bland, inconsequential words.
~~~
Copyright 2026 Jennifer L. Freed.
Jennifer L Freed’s poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, SWWIM, ONE ART, What the House Knows, and elsewhere. Her collection When Light Shifts, exploring themes of identity, health, and family dynamics in the aftermath of her mother’s cerebral hemorrhage, was a finalist for the Sheila Motton book prize and the Medal Provocateur, and won the second place Eric Hoffer Legacy award. She lives in Massachusetts.
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That’s what keeps me going: small kindnesses. Thank you for these poems.
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Me too. Thank you, Rosemay
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“a day nudged to one side by the weight of a hand.” How beautifully said, and how these two poems show this with such attentive tenderness
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This morning felt heavy until these poems lifted me up. Thank you.
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Kindness builds a passageway between hello and goodbye. Thanks for the beautiful way these poems say that.
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Thanks to all of you for your good words. I want also to thank my friend Rene who told me a story about his morning commute, which I later imagined into this poem. But in my friend’s ride, there was even another kindness: at a different stop, someone was running for the bus, and the passengers let the driver know, and the driver stopped and waited. This happened when the news from Minneapolis was new and raw. I don’t know if it’s the case, but I wonder if, on that day, on that bus, kindness and community was a spontaneous response, a kind of unplanned act of resistance. Or maybe people in my friend’s city, far from Minneapolis, are always that kind. Either way, I couldn’t resist writing the poem. Thank you Michael Simms
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The small kindnesses get us through a lot of busy days in a seemingly cold world. These two poems give me hope.
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Yes, me too.
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Thank you!
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I love the subtle craft and humane themes of these poems.
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2 poems showing how we all should be. A little kindness, just a little bit of kindness doesn’t take much time and goes a long way. Thank you, Jennifer.
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What sustains us through unkind times? Jennifer Freed reminds us. These poems are like a vitamin. Like air, like water. Thanks.
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The feeling behind ostensibly ordinary things that so easily gets lost – not in these poems though!
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