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Who Is She?
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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'.
