In a light
gray cube,
she cries about
her nose being cold
her feet that hurt
her babies
her check
her baby's, father's
check

"He has a job!
I know that
son of a bitch is
working cause I called
his mama and she..."

The clicking around
her continues as
the words spew acid
onto the earth tone
carpet.

Breath leaves her.

She notices her
fellow drones...

They are
clicking
tapping
stomping
and ignoring
a lonely woman
seeking attention
for her misery.

It will follow her
home as she dodges
through traffic tapping
her hand aggressively
on the steering wheel
trying to force
music from WJON into
her head
hoping that
Hot Leonard will relinquish
some childhood
or a laugh.

Just a little.

Self pity,
and expression,
take her from
the office past the
parks where she used to
smoke cigarettes and
let the cute boys
touch her,
past the bridge where
she fell in love
with her first baby's
daddy,
into the tunnel where
she made money before
she got an office job.

The Geo bounces onto
a curb and scrapes
her neighbor's wired fence

again.

Her babies are inside
splashing water from
the porcelain wash bin
onto the floor
giving their mother something
to do tonight.

And the t.v. blares an
insipid cartoon, that's
music

will never change.

The phone will ring
one more time tonight.
After the collection
agency and
the wheelchairs for
veteran's groups go off
the air.

It will be her sister

She will tell her her
nose is cold too
that her feet hurt too
her babies too
her check too
her baby's, father's
check

too.