BAG LADY

She sits behind the old rusty garage near the downtown district
her bags are filled with old worm items that she treasures deeply.
she digs in on of the many duffle bags to find her canned meat
which is her dinner for the evening.

Passersby look at her robotically
and hail cabs on the New York streets.
She is translucent, to all those who pretend they do not see.
She is their conscience manifesting in dreams of reality.
Yet, she hurdles another day under the subway or wherever
there is room and no one will chase her away
because she has no home to come home to.

She is all of us and we are her.
She is our landscape of ugliness
in a world that refuses to see
but the escapism is lost just for a time
she is always with us and million like her
for this is the part of life where we need charity.

her beaten brown down coat
is stained, stripped and soft.
Her shoes are tight under puffy ankles
that have walked many miles often.

Bag lady we call her, shifless bum we call her,
lazy old lady, we call her and she does not hear
she stopped that many years ago.

I do not know her or her story
I do not know what she has been through
I do not know if she is has children that will see her through.

But I do know that it isn't fair
that millions of people are homeless everywhere.
This is America people
And we are not living up to its principles.
We, too, are convicted of the crime.
Of seeing too many bag ladies do hard times time.