March Wind

Hot talkative breezes press against her body
as she makes her way through
the parking lot of her nine-to-five
a proud force full of 60-70 years wraps itself
around her face like heavy mahogany make-ups
permanent salt-smoothed pearls wait

in the shallow wells of her eyes

her hands sway slightly with her walk
they have fallen cripple - war-torn cripple -
from 46 years as a street hustler’s wife
but they are still good for greeting
she smiles at a passing woman’s toddler
with radiant false teeth and a thin line of visible gum
she remembers her children and the pathetic Christmases
that consisted of her sister’s left-over turkey slices
and slightly damaged thrift-store board games
- Where is Daddy? Mama, where is my daddy?

she remembers

but she makes it to that door
dragging what little the March winds have not worn away
and she makes a decent life for the seven grandchildren
that paint each soft black strand bold gray because

Love holds her bones together now.