With her woven wool colorful patterns
draped over her expanded breast,
oily black wires of hair descending from her head
brushing her red-orange leather countenance,
reusable green grocery bags at her ankles
she stands, a thumb stretched out over the curb
at a busy intersection.
“Por favor!” she pleads to passing cars,
desperate tears swelling in her tired eyes.
Passers-by keep eyes fixed on the road,
trying to deny peripheral vision
only for a moment to maintain clear conscience.
“It’s dangerous to pick up strangers,”
they remind themselves.
Back home her baby is crying,
children are waiting for a meal.
You pigs.
How hard is it to differentiate
between a destitute, distressed mother
and a crazed serial killer?