Who Is This

As I stand waiting

For the downtown bus

She passes,

Pushing her squeaky wheeled,

Rusty shopping cart

Filled to overflowing

With what is not bought

But found.

Her back is bent

From too many miles.

Her face,

What I see of it

Beneath her toboggan,

Is weather worn

And sags

From too few smiles.

The fingers that poke through

The finger-less gloves she wears

Have knuckles too large

For her size.

Her head is down-turned

And she shuffles

More than steps

Toward where-ever it is she goes.

Who is this person?

Does she ask the same of me?

What is her name?

I’m sure she has one

Or did at some-time.

She brings to mind

Poor Eleanor

Though I doubt

She has a face

That she keeps in a jar

And I’m almost certain

No door.

I step from the sidewalk

And onto the grass

To clear this woman

A way.

As she passes

She looks at me,


And quietly her eyes say

“Thank you.”

Mine don’t know what

To return.

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kat's picture

I like your writings. This one, like several others, causes one think think further than the words you have written. Very nice.


onelilartist's picture

Oh My God! You have really outdone yourself on this one. I don't even know what to say. Wonderful job.