The wash of stars above went unnoticed
as she pulled up on the front door handle
silencing a screech that would wake her children,
warrant calls from the back of the house,
reminding her that she was leaving them alone, again.
What a terrible way to greet the day
when it hands you maternal guilt in a brown paper lunch sack,
something to chew at you.
The neighborhood seemed weary so early, so empty,
As if it knew the sunrise would bring
folks railing against each other and their lives.
She doubled up her scarf and treaded quietly to the bus stop
fully aware she could not escape this place if she tried.
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