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a poem by Howie Good
PLAYING WITH GUNS
My mother was twelve when she went to work.
She cut lace in a dress factory after school.
Her boss was an Italian named Mike,
and at the end of every week,
my grandfather would pocket her pay.
How I often heard it growing up,
a puzzling warning in which children
playing with guns figured vaguely
and the moon was missing its lower jaw.
She cut lace in a dress factory after school.
and at the end of every week,
How I often heard it growing up,
playing with guns figured vaguely
© by Howie Good
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #7 ~ January 2010
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #7 ~ January 2010