Into Poverty

She was beragged on the subway,

An unsexual infant to her breast.

I observed her as a god would;

In her loneliness she might

Have prayed to me.

There were lines on her wrists

That told  story_

Was there a god then to hear? 

     

Her cigarette smoke made the

Baby stir, then cry its soiled

Protest. In her distance the

Mother was silent.

She sagged a long face down

To her child.

Tired, she made a smile:

Tomorrow would be another day.

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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