The Desperate Mother

The Desperate Mother

In a kitchen with bare cupboards and a fridge that hums on empty,
She counts the hours till the food bank opens, fingers tracing worry lines aplenty.
Her children don’t know they’re poor–she’s made sure of that, God help her,
Serving love on borrowed plates, disguising hunger as adventure.

She works two jobs and still can’t make the numbers hold their shape,
The math of poverty is rigged, and there is no escape.
She smiles at breakfast, hides the shaking hands behind the stove,
Packs lunches from the scraps of meals the night before rewove.

Morning comes with hopeful sun, a neighbor’s knock, a meal begun,
Community stepping in to share, lifting burdens, showing care.
Her children’s laughter fills the house like something almost whole,
And she keeps the flame alive inside a tired, unbreakable soul.