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