A Homeless Woman

Traffic lights taunt,
flick red, shouting
FORWARD MOTION
IS A PROGRESSIVE IDEA
THAT WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
Cars surge and bellow, trumpets
blown in on the wind of a
thousand competing directions.
Thirty minutes out, heat shimmers
an asphalt mirage and the city
thunders and wails like an unfed baby.
A borrowed engine lurches and coughs
to its cowardly mid-intersection death and
the green light metal stampede minnows
past in singleminded punctual intent.
Sweat beads become mercenary rivulets.
Pointed toes of welfare heels
protest a four mile pothole sprint,
the image of two children afraid to hope
held tightly in two pumping fists.
The interview waits impatiently
tapping its contemptuous foot.