6. TheRiverTalker


she shuffles along
on a walk that never ends
around the block of fifty-third and twenty-sixth
and through the alleys that hide the dirty side of life
she shuffles along,
hour after hour,
day after day,
carrying the rags and traces of her slowly gathered world
in her dented shopping cart,
with one cock-eyed, chattering wheel,
but her memories of a distant other world,
she carries in the hidden pockets within her soul,
where they fade and fade almost away,
but still keeps them until they are no more.

she shuffles along
this walking rack of tossed aside coats, mittens and scarves,
this worn out woolen woman
whose graying hair peeks out from beneath her brown and floppy hat
with its bright yellow daisies that cry out
in creaking voice, “See, how beautiful I truly am!”
to the passers-by off to other places,
to the window watchers behind walls of glass
looking out at the other world
before returning to salad plates and cups of tea,
to the unseen souls who are always there,
living in the shadows and in cracks and crevices
in this half-lit canyon
inside this towering, glowering, high-rise mountain range
of steel and stone and sums of power.

she shuffles along
muttering crazy words
and humming childhood songs,
this little brown haired girl
who wore a bright green jumper
and put summer daisies in her hair
who long ago got lost
in dreams that never came to be
with loves that never were meant to be
and got left behind
left shuffling along
and on and on,
around the block of fifty-third and twenty-sixth,
the worn out lady
in her worn out clothes
with yellow daisies in her hat.

The End

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