She has no space for any luxury -
two rooms, a teabag-size single income,
darned heels and elbows, and the drudgery
that’s supposed to be happiness on crumbs.
Her dreams are supersized, though the
teabags
are squeezed once, twice, even three times at
a pinch;
too many mouths to carry on one back,
too few hands and too many beds per inch.
But she has a heart resistant to despair -
she dreams of a sleek console; a doll’s
house
with one bed per bedroom, a store and stairs,
a library of tiny books to browse.
She hoards each scrap of waste fabric and wood,
to get her child what she’s missed in childhood.
