A Series of Haikus

I watch as the kids
buy candy from my neighbor.
It is 10 AM.

Fingers grasp my bra.
I turn, ready to curse him.
‘Twas a baby girl.

I enjoy coffee.
I don’t enjoy my latrine.
This causes problems.

A six-year-old yells,
“I love you, baby!” I sigh.
It’s not endearing.

As the bus pulled in,
I boxed an abuela out.
I’m not proud of it.

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