A hill tribe woman, Hmong I think,
in long black skirt
with blood red stitching
huddles against the building.
She has an electronic monitoring
bracelet strapped above her ankle.
She speaks insistently into a cell phone.
I don't recognize the language
but I hear the tears in her voice.
Her tiny daughter stands close,
holds her mother's hand
and looks up at her, twists
a strand of love-braided hair.
Another baby on her back
watches a delivery truck
pull up to the curb
as she vigorously sucks her thumb.
They cross the street
and turn down the sidewalk
towards the immigration office
and her tearful voice
is drowned beneath
the sound of a Harley
gunning up the hill
triggering car alarms.
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