The weight in her soul
filled her stomach like a sack of rocks;
bills to pay
mouths to feed
prayers to say.

She cracked a bottle,
there, on the other side of the tracks
where cat ****
and Bibles
smell the same.

The Seven O’ Five
rattled the windows in their frames;
time for smoke
time for drink
time for dope.

The baby cried twice,
once of cold, and once for her mama
who had left
in a flash
overdose.