Free Verse – Bag Lady

Grayish moth-eaten sweater;
fraying from the seams,
buttons popping, pockets hanging,
sleeves torn around the edges.

She is warm in her makeshift womb.

Wool-pocked skirt;
teasing the leaf-encrusted earth,
hemmed with sticky river banks,
threads soaked with infertility.

She is warm.

Withering scarfskin loafers;
bulging from bunions,
soles detaching for crisp autumn trip,
caked with putrified scuzz.

She is.

Hair brittle and stringy,
surrounding her face
in silvery waves.
Eyes in crumpled skin,
brown flesh cascading
towards her sagging breasts
eclipsed from pulpy infant lips.

She is warm. She is warm.

Hands screened in downy wool
protected from piercing winds.
Hands with which to say,
“I am accounted for,
gaze into my children’s
bony sockets”.

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