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Working

My mother had been working.

The black rings under her eyes

Glisten in the blazing hot sun,

Soaking up her withering skin,

Drawing creases in her forehead

And browning up her face.

 

My mother has been working.

Her fragile arms no longer

Hold me like they used to.

Her saddened eyes no longer

Crinkle like they used to.

Her thin drawn lips no longer

Smile like they used to.

 

My mother has been working

Because we're poor.

We've got no money,

Our clothes are battered,

Like the brains inside out heads

Dragged around and worn

From the constant stress and worry,

Like the rough soles of our aching feet.

 

My mother has been working

Because she's worried for our future.

What's to come next

If anything.

All she can think about

Is now,

The present,

Her two little boys

With soapy eyes and beating hearts

The only home they have

Is in her tired arms.

 

My mother does not like working.






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