Young Mother

Screams; and more screams;
The thin life of the young mother perambulates towards me
In chaos and smacks and shouts,
Not one person but three,
Because she lost her identity;
Recovers it in an instant as we pass,
Remembers who she is, what she is,
The dreams she had,
The personality that encased and expressed her;
We exchange pleasantries,
She drops down the facade like steel shutters masking her despair,
Projects cheerfulness,
Expresses pride in her kids, rolls her eyes,
Carries on;
Not one but three,
And the wind sings their tune backwards,
‘Three into one don’t go,
But we try,
My God we try!’
Three into one don’t go,
And in the distance she pushes on.