Who Is She?

Soul Poetry

They are everywhere.

In every direction I turn,

yet I know nothing about

any of them,

save for what mere glances

of time and situation allow.

The young mother

dragging tired

and cranky children

behind her weighed-down cart,

in effort to supply

the family's weekly morsels.

The old lady,

sitting at the bus stop,

counting out nickles,

with gnarled hands

from a battered change purse,

always coming up ten cents short.

The business woman,

darting across the street,

against traffic,

cell phone glued to her ear,

iced-latte in hand, shouting obsenities

to the car that dared almost run her down.

The young girl,

sitting cross-legged

upon a chipped-green painted park bench,

immersed inside the pages

of the dog-eared novel she holds,

tuned out to her surroundings.

The bedraggled lady,

in miss-matched shoes

with more holes than

a country club's course,

her entire world tucked safely

inside the ratty, wrinkled bags she carries.

The mid-aged woman

passing on my left

on a well-tred sidewalk,

bandana covering her 'chemo-smoothed' head,

her breasts conspicuosly absent

beneath her cotton blouse.

The little girl,

tugging her momma's skirt,

childish pleas to 'hurry up'

before the last swing is taken

and all she is left with

is the dizzying merry-go-round.

'Who is she?' echoes inside my head,

with each new face I glimpse.

And always a small voice inside whispers,

'She is yesterday, she is today,

she is you, she is them,

she is everyone...

She is us'.

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