Teen Mothers

All the teen mothers want future-tall babies and Jesus to come from the clouds and start saving them money on groceries and scratch-offs and beer. They want cowboys to whisper soft things in their ears. All the babies are starving in dark restaurant booths, crying over hunger and the poke of a tooth while Mommy’s up working somewhere at the bar. Every night ends in a cold stranger’s car. This ain’t how you meet a nice, salaried man. It’s sad but this is a lifetime of plans, culminating in doubles and long graveyard shifts where time doesn’t pass, so much as it drifts like a car driving drunk over multiple lanes. All the teen mothers want drugs for the pain and a cheap vcr to record weekday shows and a handsome young neighbor to plow when it snows. The ashtray’s been full for a couple weeks now. Maybe pick up a new one next time you’re in town. But all action ends in moot talks about. It’s really gotten too late to go out unless its drinks for a birthday or maybe the end of a long week and they need a night to be dead to the children that never stop crying in cribs with smeared peas and spittle hardened on their bibs. And this new guy says he’d love the chance to help out – you know, clean out the gutters, fill up the mouths. It stars with a ride, one more quick drive. All the teen mothers hate being alive sometimes.


~ by perfectionatrix on December 10, 2009.

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