By Latashia Figueroa
I walk outside and start my day.
Hopping, skipping along the way.
Across the street, there’s Mrs. Payne.
She waves at me but not the same.
At the Park there’s Marcy May.
I ask if she would like to play.
She nods and we begin our game.
She plays with me but not the same.
Back at home, my Momma’s there.
I ask if she would comb my hair.
Gently stroking at my mane.
It doesn’t feel right, it’s not the same.
Momma’s walking up the stairs.
Slowly coming, she’s almost here.
As she stares she calls my name.
She looks like Mom, but not the same.