a mother and her newborn

a mother and her newborn struggle to make rent, 

an apartment on the outskirts of town,

a deadbeat boyfriend who stumbles in drunk,

two jobs,

one that has her in a white apron and running from table to table,

and another that has her in a short skirt and standing at a corner. 

a mother and her newborn sit by the window on a dark blue train, 

a view of the sun setting on the god forsaken town,

a suitcase packed to burst with only the essentials, 

two seats, 

one that she rests her head on half falling asleep, 

and another where her baby sits in a car seat clutching a blanket. 

a mother and her newborn shivering as they walk down a broken cobble street,

a young woman rushes them inside an old house, 

a soft white blanket which hugs their thin bodies, 

two meals,

one that the mother scarfs down before the other has a chance to sit, 

and another which the young woman eats some, and gives the rest away.

a mother and her newborn rocking in a chair,

a children's book placed upon her lap,

a sleeping child in her arms,

two hopes,

one that has the newborn healthy and free, 

and another for herself to finally be happy.