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. Upon Seeing an Obituary was first published in MacQueen’s Quinterly.

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.