The Bag Lady: A Poem

No PC art could rescue her;
this thinness where thick plump belongs.
I wanted children at her feet,
tugging at the tidal waves
of bouncing silk in blissful skirts.
Her breasts were burning griddle cakes;
syrup jars were somewhere else.
Layers of her evening shroud
in twilight holes
where stars withdrew.

Arms in sleeves—
tamale husks of hurried fear.
Bottles sold for blessings
of their emptiness.
Her gutted eagles turning
crows in fishy poems that
needed food and renaissance.
All she had for self-defense—
bayonets of rainbow glass.
I saw her hug a jug of wine
in paper sacks the color
of determined earth,
as if it were a fountain splayed
with arteries to earned release.

Fleshy crepes of wrinkled bags
beneath these universal eyes.
Her pupils spoke: "The moon
is just a fickle puff and sunlight
ain’t debatable." Teapot gray
in tarnished locks on lattices
of shoulder blades.
I dropped one nickel of a word
in pounding puddles of her blood.
She was snow and I was dandruff
drifting in my apathy.
A Chaucer on her pilgrimage—
a pigeon lost among our noise.

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