Excuse me miss,
Do you have children?

Children,
No. I thought.
I've never even loved enough
to make those.
Those new people.
New people that grow
inside a real belly,
inside my belly.

I took way to long too long to answer.
Speaking, I say,
No. I don't have children.
No children and I turn
to face my impression in the face.

She is beautiful and haggard and black.
Haggard and struggling
to hold a child dark and as beautiful.
Her child.
He sleeps soundly.
Limp and safe,
strapped over her chest and stomach.

Desperate melting chocolate eyes
ask me,
Can you hold him?
Hold him while I put this on my back.
I have to shop,
and I don't have anyone to help me.

By that she means,
No one to love her,
no one to hold her hand,
kiss her and the dusk dark boy,
help her in the grocery store.

In the grocery store I take him
into my childless arms,
press him to my ignorant stomach and chest.
My hip holds him.
My hip was ready for children.
But only my hip was ready.