Ode to the Single Mother


Six little candles upright on a mantle
Awaiting their beloved flame.
Five ready matches wrapped up in their package
Their light has now been tamed.
Four cigarettes in the pocket of her dress
She's never got a moment to rest.
Three potpourris wafting up in the breeze
This isn't a life of ease.
Two lonesome faces with no more spare aces
They belong to the no good places.
One lonely widow sitting there in the window
She strikes the match and waits.

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