"Things," A Poetry Post

Somewhere
in the back
of a trailer
down a dirt road
is a black girl
crying about
things.

Things she
doesn't
understand.

Things she
cannot
explain.

Things she is
too embarrassed
to express.

Things beyond
her years.

Somewhere she is there,
crying,
waiting for her grandmother,
or her real mother,
or her godmother,
or a foster mother or
some other's mother.

We think
she's
in the back room
wasting hours of her life
on Snapchat
on her cell phone,
but
in reality,
she is just looking at the screen.

It's just a
mask-in-hand that
hides her face.

And she is wondering
why nobody cares enough
to ask her
what she's thinking about.

-T. D. James-Moss