In Alexandria

Mamaka, our great aunt, has been standing

a long time on the curb of Rue Farida

waiting to cross. She has been letting

the traffic pass, the Fiats and trucks,

the mule carts and listing buses,

and once in a while, the long American sedan

with its black roof and fins flaring out.

Mamaka, we say, how long must you take?

She is immovable, her grey hair

is pulled back in a bun, her dark cotton dress

is fluttering like water around her knees.

Mamaka, we say, we have appointments,

obligations, the children.

She looks this way and that,

the street is stretching out like a great chasm before her,

and there is no hope for any of us.

But maybe tomorrow there'll be

less time, we argue, more traffic.

The cars are whizzing noisily by,

two bicycles have crashed into each other,

there is flat bread and broken glass everywhere,

and Mamaka is still standing at the curb

with her hands tucked in front of her

waiting for wings on her shoes

or a gust of wind to blow her across.

Let us take her by the elbows, we think,

carry her over with her feet skimming

"One more minute," she says,

"children, some little time."

Maybe something might shimmer on the other side,

someone might call out welcome from afar.

Mamaka, we say, like this, like this,

take one foot, then the other.

We are such dark clouds at her shoulder,

such overly solicitous attendants!

"Some little time," she says,

preening her hair, clasping

and unclasping her purse,

"just one more minute, children,"

and she will not budge.