I See Her

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

© Richard L. Provencher