Not Even A Number
tiny small hands
curled up in death
that reached for the breasts
of the mother....
lips swollen and parted,
face bruised and distorted,
left to rot.... in a dumpster.
spit out by the system,
trash begats trash...
no one knows the name
of mother or child....
in the land of Jesus,
SUV's and credit cards,
not a prayer....
not even a number!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
