Job Application

A mother of colour seeks work,

her child in a sling, before her.

The display window sparkles—don’t tarnish it.

Those endless minutes

spent filling out the form;

those endless minutes

hoping for the mercy of the mighty.

Suddenly, a taxi stopped.

Opening the door,

a lady of privilege appears;

with a suitcase heavy

as the mother’s grief, her fatigue;

with the little black child looking puzzled

at the gate with its gleaming marble, its lights.

You step on a carpet, lady of privilege—

mud, you, mother.

And if money could

switch places,

the first would enter the temple with honours,

and the second, with faltering hope;

with an umbrella, pleading for mercy from heaven,

that child, to be fed by its mother.