I’m her mother. I go down to Manhattan
to clean and resurrect the room she pays for
weekly on 88th Street; uncover
$8.00 worth of quarters, five tokens,
numerous lipsticks, matchbooks, hairpins, her
baby blanket in shreds, her original
pink pacifier, and fifteen condoms in all,
wrapped neatly and ready-to-use in their
little see-thru packages. Reminds me
of the Arab up in Harlem trying
to sell a customer candles when he
distinctly said condoms. “Now what I’m
‘sposed to do with this?” the man asked, seizing
the candle. I ask myself the same question.
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