Momma's done gone
Brittany found a note, that little girl whose mother lives on the third floor, and read it to me
A letter more or less from a woman to a man saying,
stuff like I don't care how much you hurt me
I still love
she looks at me and says "don't you think that daft?"
so i tried to tell her about love between a woman and a man.
So she says "a woman is meant to hold the pain of a man."
"hold it close to her heart so she don't feel so empty"
said it almost like a question
I asked her if her momma told her that and she said,
"No. Every woman knows that from the day she is born."
not in this world . . .how does the supper get on the table here?
White and black terrier shuffles across Edmond St.
Brittany goes behind the dumpster for the afternoon.
Sun sits waiting for evening so that it can glow and hide.
Basketbal pounds a rhythm that marks a time.
A shadow of her head catching pain in the mouth
time and time again
there is dinner at the corner store
Mr. Oswald makes Italian beef on Thursday.
That and a Pepsi with buns.
A small fruit pie for desert.
After ten she can go home.
Momma's done gone to sleep.