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Hunting Grounds for Single Mothers MAG
The world stops for this plastic little town
(in the hills of discarded wedding gowns)
where sleep is freedom; freedom sings.
through town “the children” bring
children, to layer the mask.
(Here's to no pain, no drunken flask.
Have another, it's their treat);
the crying infant, wiggling feet.
The library is a picture book;
At its writing the world had shook.
But that's okay, through dark and down
(say ladies who discard wedding gowns)
(There are no dreams), just work to do;
fifteen children, and just one shoe.
We choose to want to be alone,
and yes we choose to eat only tea
The world passes by this plastic little town
where happy life is a dream, smile
masking a frown
with – (buried ambition) – in discarded