Vagabond Mother

The nights of mist bite coldly through
The tattered shawls around her form,
While flakes of snow fall soft to greet
The shivering shadows of her tears.
An overpass does not shelter,
Nor does the lintel of a door;
Only thoughts of lost innocence
When she was young, with braided hair.

The child clings unto the teat
With eyes as wide as saucer-pans;
He sucks, yet finds not nourishment
To end his suckling, swaddle-cries.
So suck again—he’ll only try
In hopes that it will end the pangs,
While the void in his stomach grows
To match the pupils of his eyes.

“A dollar please, for formula”
Has now become her formal cry;
(Sometimes her hunger runs
More freely then her infant sons.)
There was a time, when she was young
That she drank not the dregs of fear;
Only cream from the frothy cup
Of the man-servants softened hands.

Yet, time does change, and bastard sons
Do end the innocence of youth.
So now—so frozen she could be
The breeding grounds of snow itself—
She gasps, and with fingers clasps
Her body closer to her sons.
In hopes that someone will pass by
And give the child life again.