me and my little jar of marajuana-- at the public library, the goodwill store, the corner mart. Everything I buy is small and non-reusable. My grandmother sleeps in her daughter's bed now. She does not know her middle name and I cannot tell it to her. Somedays I sleep past shame and wake up ready to run. I put my sneakers on. I have nowhere to run. I watch the news even when I try not to. The television stays on like a warning signal. A young man the cops shot down in New York. He's dead now. I shouldn't have to think about him. If I weren't here, I wouldn't. And she's fallen again when they wake me up, and I wake up shameful. She's fallen. In the hall near the bathroom. The nurse shows me her bruises. I don't care, I can't care. I need to use the bathroom badly. These are our sad little human conditions. The children at school Sharon tells me about, who wake up with crusted milk on their upper lips, whose mothers don't teach them to wash their hands or wipe their asses. These kids, she says. And where are my children now? All of them bright-eyed and listening, old enough to drink and laugh at such things. They think I'm crazy, they miss me, they've forgot me now entirely. And what if I didn't re-enter the world? What would anyone think of that. The girl with her jar of marajuana, walking herself like a dog through South Boston, scanning the beaches for broken glass. A plastic bag I keep things in.