A Better Life

There's a portrait
that hangs on a sunken wall
in an abandoned apartment on Main Street.


A switch is also there
almost yanked out,
showing blue and red metal veins.

Laundry is thrown
In piles,
In corners,
Looking like rotting autumn leaves.

And lastly there's a keyhole,
that ignorantly
overlooks the infant,
lying below its tarnished nose.

The infant has a gentle face,
Soft eyes
Rose bud lips
and fragile hair,
the color of silver thread.

It clenches its fist
as if it were made of stone
Rebelling against the cruelty
that it was forced into.

A syringe rolls toward the infant,
dripping what's left,
staining a grimy rug.

A hand falls, too,
Palm facing up.
The mother shows a lifeless trust,
that things will be better this way.