Small Hands Forget

It is a sad poem
Where silver wheels grind
barley from large fields
and small hands
are missing fingers.
It’s a life.
Weakening a breed
with sugar and bread
comes easily
when water drips from brown ceilings.

In the middle of a field
a woman and two children pose
for black and white.
Their eyes play the tricks of the wind.
Their home is cardboard
their lives are wheat and sugar.

Small hands forget.

DLG
5/89