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Every time she buys those pills
that tune out the voices in her head
and keep her from barking like a dog,
she figures out whether that leaves
enough for rice and beans
till the end of the month.
She’s on the high wire without a net.
She shivers at night
with shopping-cart dreams.
Rag piles rise from the sidewalk,
assemble themselves
into rag-women who whisper
“Welcome to the really free market.”
copyright 2014
Jan
Steckel |
