AN ODE TO A YOUNG MOM

In a slightly barbaric American city,
I walked out of a blustery day
into my favorite coffeehouse
where an unusual number
of prosperous-looking people were gathered
as radio blues floated through the air

I bought a coffee and scone
from the owner,
a tough and wily but soft-hearted woman
a friend of mine

I took my coffee to the far back
and looked over my own art
which looked good
and cheered me up

Back by the tables,
I saw the owner's daughter
(one of a number) :
a young and pretty blonde
wide-eyed
lovingly holding her newborn babe
whose large well-shaped head alone
eyes still closed
protruded from its soft clothes

She looked insecure and confident,
gently loving and energetic at the same time;
I introduced myself and,
not remembering,
asked if she'd had a boy or a girl

She courteously told me he was a boy
and, as I walked away,
added: "His name is Riley"

There was something profound
in how she said that,
wide-eyed
closely holding her babe

She could have been
a Chinese heiress,
or a Haitian girl in a bread-line
in a quake-torn city,
or a Polyenesian on some far-out isle

She could have said,
"His name is Riley,"
or "He's the future of my family,
my people,
the future of humanity,"

and it would have meant
much the same