Nomadic hunters of a dream,
A dream to escape
squalor and screams.
Another day, brings another frown.
Dads racing for work, in broken towns.
Kids huddle around the rock they call Mom.
The hope in her eyes keeps them calm.
But soon this stone erodes and cracks,
And we’re left with these degrading facts:
Dads once playful, bursting with joy
Are now a husk, merely employed.
Mothers once divine, never sad
Now seem to forget that ancient fad.
The gleam the families once projected,
Is now a memory of spirits defected.
Migrant Workers
Cam Curney, 2020
Charlotte Ciampa, 2019
Abbey Brown, 2017
Mother vs. Nature