To Grasp the Remnants of Life

My mother leads me along these streets,
paper bag in hand.
My father mines for coal
while we do our duty, picking
up others’ junk, in search
of just a few empty cans.

My mother tells me if I clean the streets
I will some day wash clean my hands,
while she pockets dirty pennies
in front of drugstores
and dreams of simpler days
before childbirth and men.

As she tucks me in each night,
she assures me of His love,
fills my head with stories
of days without dusty streets,
and no more laboring for pennies,
when I’ve earned my trip above.