She’s push-chaired in on every shift
by a mother who sighs with coffee sips
trivialising suicide no doubt
or some other similar way out:
a bit more brown, another score
might push things on a little more.

Destiny sits there taking it all in
with rag-doll’s eyes, still, unblinking;
eyes no child should see with; no shine;
a grubby-faced Little Mother Time,
her mother’s troubles sitting
on her marble brow’s dark knitting.

I search for some sign in her eyes
of something like infant surprise
but the sharps of her mind are cluttered up
with images of her mother jacking up
in nightly attempts to numb the pain
coursing through syringe-thin vein.

Does Destiny deserve her name?

Alan Morrison

If you've any comments about this poem,Alan Morrison would be pleased to hear from you.