Down on First AvenueOne cannot know what is eating within,
And, honestly, is it worth trying to know?
The old broad nurses her drink at the bar,
Puffs on a cigarette. Man, she looks bad,
With her moon-crater face and unruly
Gray hair. Her clothes are well-worn,
And they look pretty dirty. The sole
Of one shoe has hole, I can see, as it's
Dropped to its side on the floor
Underneath her. A large plastic bag
Has the stool beside her, a wardrobe
It seems, a portable home. So many
Symptoms of what has gone wrong,
Things that the smartly-dressed folks
Who pass by (but don't look through
The windows) would say are the reasons
She's ruined her life, but they're no more
The causes of her situation than snottiness
Brought about their privileged lives.
Something internal defeats her, I know.
I'm no better at trying to guess what it is
Than I am at explaining why I'm also here.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 24 times
Written on 2021-04-28 at 18:49
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