‘Baby Haunts Her Corner’ was the winning entry for WritingForums monthly poetry challenge, April 2016.
Baby sports more prints
than bagged forties
passed ’round her corner.
Eyes never to see twenty,
reflect a century’s
worth of torture.
Mater shared her habit
with busty preteen
in threadbare bra,
now every venous road
is run ragged
by spawned track star.
Cheeks peek
from beneath
a tiny denim tease,
when you wanna work,
advertising captures sleaze.
Daddy takes his share,
pink limo must be prime,
gotta have a guardian
to keep the tricks in line.
Mama’s a magician
who makes stuff disappear,
bags, bucks, and self-esteem
vanish when she’s near.
“Can’t sell my shriveled prune,
but you’re still nice and ripe,
best pass that pipe on over
cuz it was me who gave you life.”
Spoonfuls of sugar
amply sweeten the pot,
those lovely little nods
are all poor Baby’s got.
Despite stiletto wobble,
she’s always in the game,
palming chips
from countless hands
‘fore dawn dents
dark’s bruised remains.
Ghost leans upon a lamppost,
glittered orbs drooping closed,
slurring a seductive pricelist
with her pretty ass exposed
and perceiving the scent of pig
through a septum deprived nose.
Illuminated aluminum
declares Times Square,
but that’s just for the tourists,
walking dead are well aware
a bleary peer at the sign back
bares Satan’s Thoroughfare
an avenue of excess
worn down to cobblestone,
sprinkled with spent syringes
and powdered babies’ bones.
Lisa Korba Alvarez was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York but currently resides in Queens surrounded by trees which affords her a fair share of contentment. Her greatest inspiration was her father, Chester, who believed in her and taught her to believe in herself thereby giving her the tools to survive almost anything, and thankfully so, for fate has tested those tools repeatedly in his absence. She adores her daughter, three sons, her granddaughter, and her parrot, Butters, all of whom keep her busy, grounded, and bring her the greatest joy imaginable. She is indebted to her Writing Forums family for every word she writes for it was her well-versed teachers at the site who taught her everything she knows about poetry. Without them, she’d still be spewing forth cringeworthy forced rhymes. Her gratitude for her WF mentors is immeasurable and eternal. They’ve given her the gift of expression which without a doubt has saved her sanity.
