Sunday poetry

didn't yo mama invent the pay toilet

didn't yo mama invent the pay toilet
or was it the guillotine
some answers are hard
the way the blade sings
the vibration and splinters
the smell of the crowd
and dried blood
the sound
the approach
the warmth and the kneeling
space on a busy day
the expressions
in the baskets below

it is not like fumbling
for a dime and dribbling piss
in questionable clothes
but it is the thought that counts
that someone who cries and shits like you
knew what you would need
and still asked for money
did not care what you heard
or lost as the blade fell

and what's more
would be lost in a crowd
nothing would break them off
from the human womb
we are strange like that
all with mothers

~ Kim D. Hunter