Napkins For Food
She pressed on tightly
Gripping her cloth
Dusting all the dark
Arranging all the packages
She clutched at the years
At all the stillborn frozen dinners
Half parasitic blood
She shrieked at allowance
Thinking she could control
A golden son she never knew
Still, with her napkin
She went to wipe his face
Which had changed considerably
Though she clutched the image of her baby
Deathly afraid of loss
Clinging terribly to sullied napkins
Though for no apparent reason
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