There’s a woman and her daughter on my street.
Two lives, one-room apartment
seven houses deep.
Just seven houses down
from the man who owns this town.
Behind peach curtains faded in the sun
the girl unfolds a snowflake
tapes it up beside the one
flat and crinkled on the freezer.
Crinkled too her mother’s face
with joy, although her cheeks have gotten narrow, thinner.
The mother knows this meager craft was meant to please her
and spoons out all she’s got to give:
an ersatz yellow mound of love upon a plate: