Driven by shattered, mapless fathers,
souls line strangled storefronts where crowds crowd
to fill coffers and coffins, seething.

Seeing nothing but crying children
whose parents hear with ears of stone,
salesmen turn money into magic.

Waiting under wet awnings for black cars,
brick mothers break lips that nurse and nip,
lonely work for tired, ragged hands.

 
 
G.M. Palmer lives with his wife and daughters on a poodle farm in North Florida.
His writing can be found through www.gmpalmer.com and is on Twitter @gm_palmer