Averted eyes could never erase you
from life's dusty canvas.
Shackled to your mother’s hand, leather
claw clenching still soft, filthy
hands, she drags you like a threadbare
mop through tourist mobs, hoping
to clean up.
"Chiclets! Chiclets!" your dead bird
voice chirps over chatter of passersby.
How many times must you thrust
your shiny cellophane treasures into
thighs of bridge walkers before you earn
your keep for another day?
Some see you against their will,
as if looking you in the eye
would make you theirs. Loathing
for your mother is exacted
with each brush, shove, tsk
aimed at you, meant for her.
Your lips have never felt her spit
on a napkin, tugging at corners
in search of street grime to trade
for a new child.
Endless chants at deaf ears and shirttail tugs
yields one palm smudged coin. You search
for a spot clean enough to keep
from soiling your gain and spoiling
your game, keepaway from your mother.
But she always wins, swats your rear
and shoves you to the hordes looking
the other way.
Averted eyes could never save you
from life's dusty canvas.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones