A Passerby

A Passerby

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,
Smiles,
And quietly her eyes say
"Thank you."
Mine don't know what
To return

~ Michael Bahm ~

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