Bag Lady

There she goes again,
Shuffling on her small grey feet,
Shabby clothes adorned with stains,
Head bowed against the sleet,
Damp, still, from last night’s rain,
Her load of crinkled carrier bags
Crunching in her arms,
Her face smooth-skinned
Like a time-worn pebble,
Head twitching in permanent alarm,
Eyes locked on some distant shore,
Frozen in time, eager remembrance
Of bygone places
And a forfeited chance.
Now and then she hears
The whispered lines of
Some ancient joke and
She sheds her cloak of fear,
Throws her head back,
Grey hair tumbling like a dancer’s
Over huddled shoulders,
And she laughs
As if her heart would break.

What does she carry
In the plastics she cradles,
Clutched to her chest
As if she fears that they will disappear
By stealth or loss or theft?
Hands, rough-edged,
Red-raw and raging with winter,
Tremble and grip them so tight
Her very knuckles might splinter.

Would she have loved once?
Did her eyes sparkle and lips kiss,
Did she whisper her dreams
And murmur with a lover’s bliss?
Did her flesh ever know a caress,
Melt with pleasure,
Burst open with life?
Or was it always this?

In those bags:
Her world,
Her dreams,
Her memories,
Her everything.