Past ***** streets, and greasy alleys,
toward secret places unknown,
mumbling, grumbling, rambling, ambling,
a disheveled crone shuffles alone.
Silver mane blown wild in wind,
her face and hands all smudged,
in tattered clothes beyond their use,
past broken windows she's trudged.
Imperfect cart of broken dreams,
all of her obsessions,
pushed ahead on squeaky wheels,
through neighborhood depressions.
Upon a broken park bench,
where children used to play,
and having nowhere else to go,
she sits there most the day.
Silently observing,
the daily passers-by,
she feeds the birds some bread crumbs,
and sometimes starts to cry.
There she sits, throughout the day,
until the sun has set.
She packs up all her precious things,
but leaves behind regret.
People never look at her,
or only seem to stare.
Where she sleeps, no one knows,
and no one seems to care.