Patiently, she shivers on
an inner-city sidewalk.
Wind whips through her stockings and
Seeps through her battered jacket.

Mothers clutching small hands
hurry through blinking intersections,
carrying wrapped boxes while
dodging freshly snow covered sidewalks.

One block away, a jubilant man dressed
in red continuously rings a bell,
collecting money for the children.
If only it were that easy.

Her children deserve the best.
After all, she’s the only supplier of
optimism these days. Not even a
paycheck from their drunk father.

When she has company,
sour unfamiliar tastes seep through
her lips, as snowflakes and smoke
drift through shared air.

It’s not her fault their father left,
that she got laid off,
or that she spends her nights
with strange men.

She’s doing what she can to
pay the mortgage,
cook a hot meal each night,
place a present under the tree.