A poor old woman

buys a bag of plums.

A poor girl, a few feet away,

tends to colicky children.

She puts her hair back with a hair tie,

sits in her jeans on the sidewalk

and feeds them until,

the smell of ripe plums filling the air,

their screams suddenly stop.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

she slurps. Juice drips

down her cheek, down her arm.

She grins.

Dabs the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief.

The children, tears in their eyes, howl

with new vigor, motion, kick

toward the old woman as she ambles

out of, out of, out of, out of

sight.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Losing then regaining her balance, the girl gets up,

her own eyes filled with tears.

She disengages the stroller brake and walks home, hungry for plums.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small, small, small.

Small, small.

Small comforts.

Small, small.

Small, small.

Small, small.

Small, small.