She was
not old enough
to have graduated
high school,
nor aware enough to
notice
how many eyes were on her,
sympathetic or
disdainful or
hungry,
as she struggled to push a cart full of
pull-ups
and cleaning supplies
in a cart with a broken wheel
through the warm and somniferous glow
of ill-maintained streetlights,
those obelisks of granite.
Don't call it
pity,
but
something
stirred my gut,
and burned my eyes,
as she trudged past me,
pushing a cartload of motherhood,
trailing a warm autumn breeze,
an aromatic telegram;
lilac and lavender,
a diffident bouquet,
accented by spritely vanilla,
withering before bleach-fumes
and mordant disinfectant.