I Can Hear My Weeping

The bag lady is up
to her neck in leftovers.
I see her all the time
daily in a march through
my way of life
orderly and without pain
and she thinks I’m playing
a charade.
Her world is--freedom
where dirty toes
and unkempt hair
provide music
without fanfare nor idle
boasts.
I see her all the time
her resonance
that flighty walk
a mourning dove alive
in the sorrow of her living.

© Richard L. Provencher
Website: www.wsprog.com/rp/