After the March

On the curb

In a drug induced stupor

She sits

Curled over the baby

Inside

I know this much

Because of her sign

 

In front

Of an OTR restaurant

Two feet from the alfresco diners

On the street

Hell, it’s sixty-five degrees

in January

 

The hubbub drones

Over microbrews

In chairs rented hourly

With the Visas and Am Ex cards

Tucked tightly into wallets

 

She appears to be

Dying a slow death without notice

It makes me wonder

How’s that baby fairing inside

Is he suffering the same

Addicted to whatever pounds through her veins

 

Yesterday our newly elected

Buffoon, royal groper extraordinaire

Began the domino effect

Insuring her fate and the baby’s

Will not be unique

 

The very reason I’m downtown

Is over dosing at my feet

While onlookers

The privileged

Stuff burgers into their faces

 

I give her what I have

Several tuna sandwiches

Half a dozen granola bars

Three bottles of water

 

I touch her arm

She lifts her head and thanks me

Her eyes are blue