Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
To childhoods toys, play
Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Her portion.
They dont give me welfare.
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Repetition. Her children, strangers
Of crimes clichéd by
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feelof
Other peoples property.
Her jowls shiver in accusation
Where bones idle under years of fatback
Into a den of bereaucrats for
I take it.
And lima beans.
Searches her dreams for the
