Sunday Afternoon

Dahlia
the raven-eyed mother calls a name
sifting through the neatly sorted laundry
on a counter
sanitized too late

And the mail slots
numbered in odd intervals
watch her fold and tear
fret and glance beneath her undone hair
dyed red unevenly

The child sighs and murmurs
content within lazy folds
never asleep
the mother coos
tired dove

Bobbing down the aisles
of forty five minute conveniences
a dollar fifty each

She lacks the change
the new born mother
and turning worried
carries her Dahlia
wrapped in dirty sheets.