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This poem is more of a rant than I usually write. It’s inspired by a sign I saw recently.
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BABY / TODDLER FOR SALE
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was what I read at first on a sign
taped to a tree I passed in my car,
the word “items” printed too small
to detect after “toddler.” For a fraction
of a second, I truly believed that
my neighbor was peddling her child
at a discount, proving that my mind
is now more accurate than ever
when figuring probability, predicting
outcomes with micro-economics. After all,
aren’t the daily reports of headlines,
news tickers, and minute-by-minute crawlers
even more outrageous? One mother
returns her adopted son, her lemon
that she neglected to fully research.
Another stuffs her newborn infant in
a shoebox like a worn-out moccasin
then throws it into a dumpster.
Not to mention the saddest of abortions,
those failures to recycle, piles of remainders.
Entire regimes and governments also
become too frugal, trading for guns
those hospital supplies that could save
some of the women destined
to die in childbirth. There are futures.
And then there are futures.
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by Therese L. Broderick
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