Squatting—crouched mantis-like,
bloated balloon belly—
bloodshot eyes, and outstretched hands,
she whispered:
“Mister…Mister…help me. Mommy’s dying…
Mommy’s dying with hunger, Mister.”
The ghost of starvation stares…silently smirking; assured.
Mister frowns, briefly rubs his hands, and briskly walks on.
Watching, I let out a loud scream and ran like a wild child.
Behind, a dog lapped-up the sandwich I had just thrown away;
my mommy had made the nasty thing with too much meat.