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By Irene Simon Sipos Poem of waiting two hours after school has closed, the six-year-old with a skinned knee forgotten by the nurse. Poem of a weeping willow whose leaves drift into the yard next door, its feathery heaps delighting a child in the upstairs bedroom looking down, frustrating her father who needs to rake. Poem of the innumerable small and complicated parts of the body that, without being asked, work steadily, silently, in harmony, almost all the time. Poem of a voice hesitant to hear itself, to discover how it might sound, how uninformed it might be about what others know, how inadequate its questions might appear. Poem of quiet rooms that one walks through when everyone has left, no parents, no children, no relatives or friendly dog to click-clack nails on the floor. Poem of the nearly empty #25 bus riding down Delaware Avenue at four in the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, proclaiming Happy Holidays, icy snow streaking the sky. Poem of discovering a poem with a line that startles, an image that reveals, a nervous system that makes us jealous, and a promise that makes us weep.

Contributor’s Note: IRENE SIMON SIPOS is a retired professor in the College Writing Program at SUNY Buffalo State who continues to work as a freelance editor and tutor at Buffalo State’s Writing Help Center. She is a native Buffalonian who completed her master’s degree in American literature at the University at Buffalo under Robert Creeley and Leslie Fiedler. Her work has been published in a wide variety of publications, including Comstock Review and Earth’s Daughters magazine.