woman with a cardboard sign

squats on a concrete slab
at an intersection
by a post that once
held the price of gas

will work for food
elicits a buck
from a kid
who jumps out
of a rusted off-white galaxy

he knows the pangs
of hunger
from the days he slept
in the back seat

till his dad got work
at the foundry
picking up scraps
and got a place to live
near the salvation army

the woman sneaks a bite
of pastry as she holds the sign
up to her ruddy face

her short dirty hair
wisps from the traffic
as she waits
for the next red light


Smitty's

Mostly I remember
holding my mother's hand
the smell of fresh sawdust
the worn plastic number
she pulled off the hook
by a huge jar of pickles
the paper I'd watch her
unfold in the kitchen
later that day and the
light succulent taste
of the bloody roast beef

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