there was no part of me
that could find the will
to protest
when the 18 year old
blue mohawk girl
with a screaming sticky-dirty baby
on her hip
and more metal in her face
than a tackle box
cut me off
in the u-scan lane
at the super market
all i could muster was pathos
as she began charging her dreams away
one baby food jar at a time
i know her
i’ve been her
either daddy didn’t love her enough
or
he loved her
a little too much