Poor then was what she called the last bills twisted in her wallet. The poor saved spoons of sugar, she traded them for stamps. He wanted a clever wife. Poor, the baby left with the nuns. What is poor is what she sees.
Cracks stop the station clock, girls with candle grease to sell.
Clever, poor, clever and poor, her husband, more nervous than his picture, his shined shoes tied with twine. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.