Sodden ceiling, corrugated,
a berth that wanes and shivers.
Forced between compounded cubes,
inhabited by givers.

Glitchy limbs of ash on puddle;
inverted self-reflection.
Paper walls, weak from
blotted acid rain ingestion.

Tattered cloth and matching veins,
pupils full and vacant.
A nauseating gulp of tar;
reaction with the pavement.

Every morning, overwhelming
waves of sober sickness.
Sixteen weeks is past the point
to turn around and quit this.

Another man, another bump.
Irreversible.
Another baby growing tough.
Inconceivable.

Tepid womb and nine months soak
can wreck a little one.
That's why they always took them
and left her to mother none.

Breaking water, babbling,
a window darkly stained.
Two nurses, prompt and tidy,
searching out a vein.

A mangled city sky scrapes
against the cubes of givers.
A doctor breathes a solaced sigh;
a baby is delivered.