Tattered and torn,
Old, and quite worn.
She lives in the street,
No shoes on her feet.
They call her "Old Hag",
Her clothes, but a rag.
Children throw stones,
Never leave her alone.
But somehow she thrives,
Lest her will to survive.
Despite her poor health,
And absence of wealth.
She sleeps where she's able,
Park benches, old tables,
Eats food from trash cans,
Her bathroom-- A bedpan.
Seeks shelter from rain,
Most often in vain.
Finds warmth in the winter,
From restaurant air-venters.
She smiles at the sun,
Gives birds half her crumbs,
Has only three teeth,
To chew what she eats.
And each night she does pray,
To see a new day.
Before she closes her eyes,
And quietly dies...
SJ Sinister