The Last Vestiges (Round 2)

Let’s workshop this poem about a meth head out for cash from her mother, who watches her toddler each day

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The Last Vestiges 

Cradling a Happy Meal (stiff, having clocked
its share of local miles), the meth-mouth mother
exhales and whirlwinds into her childhood home 
midmorning, sweeping up the TVed toddler 
in a twirling tremble-embrace. Unlike that rank
amplified by curbside Febreze, that enthusiasm 
amplified by curbside eyeshadow (and tokes)
soon wilts. Cash is to be procured from Granny
with that teen sway of one leg behind the other,
a man smoking curbside window-visible. Fast
the day approaches when—against the fixity
of that contagious killer rank—the transience
of that contagious killer enthusiasm will so flare 
that the boy, fingers tracing the McDonald’s toy,
will realize the necessity of becoming immune
with a level of consciousness before his time.

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This poem is unpublished

Photo: missoulian.com/news/national/a-new-meth-surge-gathers-momentum/article_f415910c-a924-520b-8aeb-e0c0c93cf35d.html