He left her broken body,
their child a silent mess,
the landlord has no patience,
her friends have closed her out,
the family turned away.
They’d warned her of the prospects,
lectured long and hard,
for better or worse it’s her bed now,
but her shoulders are bowed with strain.
She worries for their child,
what love is this?
The food is running low,
though a stranger gave her money,
enough till welfare day almost,
but will there always be tomorrow,
will there be a birthday too?
Should she take back the bruises?
at least he brought her bread.
©Paul Vincent Cannon