Mother on a Streetcorner

Her nipple peeked through her blouse as she sat against the wall of a hair salon. Her eyes closed against the harsh sunlight; skin broiling, bubbling, salivating, she dreamt of a cold shower and sunscreen. Her shirt had not been changed in eight days, various stains decorating simple mustard yellow. Bohemian flower skirt inched to her knees. Thick legs spread wide on concrete, frail hairs in patches. Scars like hieroglyphics and a fresh bruise on her calf. Her raisin lips spoke need of Burts Bees and ice cubes in a city where ice cubes and Burts Bees could be delicacies.

It's gums wrapped around her large aerola and sucked violently for lunch. Like a kitten, it fed off it's mother ravenously, nearly tearing tissue, splitting ducts from the body of it's creator. She held it in her arms tight, mouth sucking like a machine- the only sensation that still brought her pleasure. Men in suits walked by. Boys with virgin eyes and soccer balls. Women in sandals and pulled back hair. She made the street corner her living room, opened doors to visitors passing through.

And though she had none, she sat there through the sunset- child in arm- the everyday grafitti that never saw a second glance.