Hands cupped. Yet a pup. Not enough.
Not nearly enough
to feed the brother, to feed the mother.
One too young,
the other too old, the weather foretold
of the incumbent cold.
She'd sit there no less, feet wrapped
in paper and plastic,
slight frame as frail as the matchstick
she'd used yet
a moment ago. Heartbeat too slow.
Momma should know
flesh cold as snow, raw to the bone,
gaze lifeless as stone.
🚶♂️
©dead_poet
D