The Woman in the Street (I.P.)

Her plight catches my eye; burdened
with bags; still more stuff to bolster
already chokka closets; bulging
with blouses by Bulgari, sandals
by Steiger, and frocks from France.

Drawers spilling over; watches
by Cartier, and Oyster Rolexes –
diamond necklaces – string upon
string of finest uncultured pearls
and shot-silk chiffon scarves to die for.

ooo000ooo

Odd then she should make a bee-line
for my shop, called simply ‘Soul Scrolls’,
as I watch her cross the street. Her head
aches, and she can’t recall, for love
nor money, where the hell she’d parked...
and even so, where were her keys?

Blinded by the glare of speeding metal –
makes it to the other side. How fast
cars go these days! No regard for folk,
unsteady on their feet or a touch
confused...such as she.

ooo000ooo

My door, wide open, as it usually is –
gingerly treads the ‘welcome’ mat.
“You do sell prayers here, don’t you?
Recommended by a friend, do you see?”

What quantity was required, I ask, and,
“How much would madam like to pay?”
I could do her a deal on a dozen; for her
a ‘special price’. And the length; would
that be long, short, or in-between?

ooo000oo

This was an ice-cream parlour, she tells me –
way before my time, she adds. Does He
like ice-cream, she wonders...and a thought,
in passing, could my prayer machine,
computerised, as it may be, really
fast-track to God?

I decline to answer; merely say,
she’d been parked two blocks down,
outside Macy’s; the meter, just
this minute, expired. And, academic
as it was, the car-keys – in her raincoat
inside pocket... with the pills
she forgot to take.