Momma Welfare Roll

Her arms semaphore fat triangles,

Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips

Where bones idle under years of fatback

And lima beans.

Her jowls shiver in accusation

Of crimes clichéd by

Repetition. Her children, strangers

To childhood's toys, play

Best the games of darkened doorways,

Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of

Other people's property.

Too fat to whore,

Too mad to work,

Searches her dreams for the

Lucky sign and walks bare-handed

Into a den of bureaucrats for

Her portion.

'They don't give me welfare.

I take it.'