THE BAG LADY.

She wondered down the street, with shuffling step she trod,
Her head bent low, shoulders dropped, against the driving rain
Her dirty gnarled hands clutched tightly to her filthy bag
Holding all the things she owned, except for the lonely pain.

She had no smile for the passers by as they hurried to and fro,
She wanted no part of a normal life, least that's what she said.
It's a wonderful life she told herself, over and over again.
I do not need a home and fire or a warm and comfortable bed.

There is an old warehouse where you can get in from the cold,
With the scraps from the cafe and a bottle of stolen wine.
I be better off than the fancy folks who have to pay a rent,
I am free from worry and no one to feed, I really am quite fine.

She went through the hole in the wall to her own little spot,
Laid her treasures on the floor, there was no one else around.
Then she bowed her head in prayer,"Thank you god" she said.
Then she drank from the bottle, ate the food from the ground.

She settled down for the night, keeping warm as best she could,
She thought of the warmth of a fire, a bath and fresh bread.
She thought of people she loved, longed to be with them.
"They don't want me around them, looking like this" she said.

Is it pride in the old heart that stops them from coming home?
Is it fear they are not wanted that lets them suffer alone?
Swallow your pride dear old lady, put fear aside for a day.
There may be some one longing for you, just to come home.

Ann Margetson
Feb 3 1995
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