My diabetic mother has travelled the world.
She has seen golden splendor of Gran Via in Madrid.
She commented on the market in Taksim Square, near Çarsi Caddesi,
how sidewalks appeared unplanned, unruly and uneven.
Thinking my mother was some sort of Federalist
but I knew, while sightseeing, she had to walk
from place to place, on surgically altered and broken feet.
My mother carried her own food, to combat a vengeful stomach.
Off the foot worn path, my mother met, ate and commiserated with locals.
She noticed harsh conditions and sidewalks.
Like on Rainbow Street, in Amman, there were new benches
where one women could sit and not look out of place or be questioned.
She noticed common plazas in Cairo, where weary pedestrians could gather
in groups of twos or threes. With sore knees and aching arches,
they could plot hunger revolution or a tired walkers revolt.
Considering herself blessed, my mother knew tipping points
seeing injustice and inequity.
She could see far, in rugged and uneven
sidewalks of Istanbul.