the bruised face
with chaptered eyes,
you change the baby....
coffee, no breakfast.
pick up the bottles,
empty the ashtrays....
brush your hair,
try to hide
the telling color....
and off to work.
9.50 an hour,
amid the whispers....
to you, love is a battlefield,
a baby's cry, ... and tears
you dont have time for.
Eric Cockrell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tears-you-dont-have-time-for/
