The small girl and her mother

The blue balloon
Soaring in midair,
a bright bulb against the drywall of deep blue
A orange string tied at the wrist,
a small girl in a dress to match; runs down the street
heading home, the only place she knows
worn shoes, patched dress
she runs over the dead grass
Smoke trails up out her kitchen window,
as her mother paces and takes a smoke
few words is she
but her love is evident and makes the child think
that she can chase dreams
and someday live in palace, where she’d rather be
instead of in a home of poverty
the only glimpse the girl will see
of the truth of what her mother be,
alone in a room,
make up gone,
hair down
and a bottle of gin in hand
she’ll watch her mother grin and laugh,
but more often weep
but only through this peep hole



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