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Where They Come From, Where They Go
Word's out: Tina's
run off in the night,
taking only
what she carries inside:
her baby wrapped tight
and warm in her belly,
a head full
of memories
she's too young to know are best
left behind, a few vague plans
she'll follow like stars.
No matter she can't read
the words on this page,
or her child won't know
the face of its daddy
any better than she does.
If there's money for cigarettes,
she'll get by,
for the night is an arm
around her shoulders,
the night's the dark womb
of the mother who loves her.
Back at the home girls
press big stomachs together
and stare through the panes
for a shadow of Tina.
While they box up her
clothes, put clean sheets
on her bed, Tina curls
like a child in the lap
of the fog,
the streetlight a halo,
gone by morning.
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