The Girl With The Pushchair Poem by Martin O'Neill

With a wistful smile
She deftly tucks the blanket in,
Whispering as she does so,
'There, sweetheart, there.'
Litter chatters along the road,
Needing to be somewhere else.
The baby sleeps for now,
Oblivious to the street wind
And her mother's quiet struggle.
Stalking the sales, special offers,
Trying to find ends to make meet
Maybe get ahead of the game
Not just make it to payday.
Around her the City pulsates,
A steel, stone and wire leviathan
Devoid of emotion, warmth, heart.
It breathes, dead exhalations of fumes,
Smoke and remains of nightclub dreams.
She pulls her collar tight
Shoulders her bag and heads for home.
Car horns blare and engines hum.
Maybe tomorrow,
Maybe....