Momma welfare roll
Her arms semaphore fat
triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on
layered hips
Where bones idle under years
of fatback
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in
accusation
Of crimes clichéd by
Repetition. Her children,
strangers
To childhood's toys, play
Best the games of darkened
doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the
slick feel of
Other people's property.
Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks
bare-handed
Into a den of bureaucrats
for
Her portion.
'They don't give me welfare.
I take it.'
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