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Bag Lady
by Hugh O'Donnell 21/10/2006


Plumping down on the cobbles
the folded petal donned pink sunglasses
and full-stretched sticky colours
to family and friends she would meet.

As thin as a witch, the other sat,
with her hair as untamed,
in a nearby doorway, clawing
her sodden, chequered bag.

A cataract of difference lay
between them.

Hand dipped deep in calf-skin pink,
surrounded by a ring of rosey
beaming love, the fumes of sweet kernels
infused the flowery air;

her despair as cavernous
as her lice-ridden purse, neglected
by the midday sun, transluscent
to the throng, a shimmering street-prop.

Each is an inversion
of the other.

posted by Hugh O'Donnell @ 11:09 PM