grey and course,
this refugee of urban wars.
Through eyes so dark and wrinkled wary
she sees the traffic as a ferry
who’s riders cast dismissive stares
and laugh about the shoes she wears.
She has no family,
friends or foes-
the empty streets she calls her home.
A tumble weed blown by despair,
to passers by she isn’t there.
The mystery of her toothless smile
is filled with loss and not beguile.
Her cart piled high with bags and bottles,
she drags along the dirty sidewalk.
Her hands are wrapped in filthy rags.
To most, a cast off, crazy hag.
No one stops to help or offer
just a hand or smile or prayer.
Though she seems poor,
we all are beggars.
She hangs upon the ragged edge
of dreams she had,
a life she left.
Perhaps she was a woman scorned,
a rebel who could not conform.
But this is true,
this much I know,
I see her everywhere I go.