![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Street-Life.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
by Fran Schumer<\/span><\/p>\n Today, I watched a woman, When I was young, I watched Even younger, I watched an old woman My great aunt picked I watched her rummage At home, I disinfect my new shoes, I say no \u2014I’d rather live <\/p>\n Fran Schumer<\/span>\u2019<\/span>s poetry, fiction, and articles have appeared in various sections of\u00a0The New York Times<\/em>; also,\u00a0Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review,<\/em>\u00a0and other publications. She won a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York and in 2021, a Martha\u2019<\/span>s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing poetry fellowship. In 2022, her poem, Memento Mori<\/em>, was a winner of the Martha\u2019<\/span>s Vineyard Poet Laureate<\/span>\u2019<\/span>s 2022 Contest. Her Chapbook, Weight,<\/em> was the first runner up in the Jonathan Holden Poetry Chapbook Contest and was published in 2022 by Choeofpleirn Press. A native of Brooklyn, N.Y., she studied political science at college but wishes she had spent more time studying Keats.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fran Schumer\u2019s poetry, fiction, and articles have appeared in various sections of\u00a0The New York Times; also,\u00a0Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review,\u00a0and other publications. She won a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":9957,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[430],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9955","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-urban-poem"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9955","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9955"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9955\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/9957"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9955"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9955"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9955"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nnot young, squat in a doorway
\non a crowded street, and pee.
\nI wore my new black shoes.
\nLater, I saw her crouch down
\nbeside two men. Their cheeks,
\ncrinkly brown like autumn leaves,
\nglowed in the still warm sun.<\/p>\n
\na Little Person, fair and blond,
\nsquat beside a tall, dark man
\non a crowded highway, and pee.
\nHow breezily she zipped up her jeans,
\nleaned against her companion,
\nthen continue on her way.<\/p>\n
\npick through the trash at Coney Island.
\nHer shredded stockings
\ncrawled up her legs like spider silk.
\nThe hamburger my parents bought me
\nturned grey in my cold, numb hand.<\/p>\n
\nthrough trash
\nthough she wasn\u2019t poor.
\nHer husband was maybe gay \u2014
\nno talk of that then \u2014
\nshe only knew she was unwanted,
\npitied for not having children.<\/p>\n
\nthrough old crusts, crushed cans,
\nbags stained with grease,
\na veiled hat pinned
\nto her angel white hair,
\na brooch at the collar
\nof her fine, dark dress.<\/p>\n
\ntell my husband of the varied street life
\nin the downtown where we now live,
\nat this, the end of our years.
\nBetter than living in a gated community,
\nblind to the world, he says.<\/p>\n
\nin a gated community,
\nand soon we will,
\nwalls made of clouds,
\nthe angels singing,
\nlulling us into the false
\nconsciousness of the dead.<\/p>\n