Ghosts of home-born and unnamed children slow-pace,
Playless and purposeless, twilit
In the landfill. They ask us, love, how is it?
Thought without words, no mouth, no face.
Haunts in nights of a mother, when the thin moon
Shrinks from succor, they watch her, dead,
Sleep in her visions, blind as memory ahead,
Asking are you ready now? Soon?
They wake eternally too soon in the space
Between dirt and trash, rich and poor,
Birth and no more.
Tuppence for a starvin' poet, Guv?