The Bag Lady

The clothes she wore were twenty years old Tattered and torn not much protection from the cold The rusty cart she pushed with wheels well worn The hair on her head needed to be shorn Slowly into the emergency room she did enter Just in time for her heart was tender As she sat down in the chair Her lungs no longer filling with air Passed out onto the floor Someone coming in through the door Yelled code blue alert Then the staff turned with a jerk Everyone moved in hight speed motion Some people wondered what's the commotion Just like lighting to the operating room Jane Doe was whizzed which was none too soon After days of tender loving care Still unidentified she slipped away from there Meeting her husband beside the road Speeding away in their car they drove She was no bag lady But America's elderly poor Who needed heart surgery But couldn't afford the cure (This is copied righted on LuLu's Poetry.com as are most of my work, some of which is supposed to be published in their anology series. Sara)