The sun flung its heat sideways,
pregnant mom clutching bags, sagging thighs,
two kids, sticky hands, trailing chaos,
as the minivan whimpered to rest.
Then she came, hair like peroxide flame,
lips sharp, cutting with rehearsed fury,
\"This is my spot, my sacred ground!\"
Her finger wagged, self-righteous spear.
Mom blinked, belly taut with life,
sweat pooling in the silent cracks,
\"Public street,\" she muttered, barely audible,
but Karen\'s war drum thumped louder.
Two kids stared, wide-eyed at wrath,
wondering if monsters wore floral shirts,
while justice choked somewhere in throats—
pregnant silence heavier than the heat.
A horn blared, the moment shattered,
the kids giggled—mom started her engine,
rolling past, leaving Karen\'s spot behind
as if scorn belonged to the curb.