QUARTER ON A SATURDAY
by Kathryn Magendie

Young painted faces under witches’ hats
crouching in canine, feline, homosapien urine
on the battered street of New Orleans.
Sad animalized-cornered look
upthendownthenover quickly
avoiding curious stares
and flung coins

And their mother shadows over them
begging, pouting, pointing to the box
wedged between dirty feet, tucked close
as out tiny hands reach, nails dirty half moons
mimicking her
Her cracked red lips grin grotesquely
at a man in a tie “money, we need money
See my pretty little witch girls,
they’ll put a spell on you”
And he passes, sniffing the ill wind
of ignorant charm

Little girls in dark cloud of clothing
dream of dolls, tea parties, pink dresses
seen in magazine pages flying away
from those that have already
Or maybe they think of food
Or of their mother
as she hides her dignity, her motherhood
behind ill intent.