The Bag Lady
Old with wisdom they say
A long life she lived
Wrinkles tell her story well
The crow’s feet gauge her eyes
Dull, colored grey now
Without a spark in sight.
Time is for the birds
The clock has not been kind to her.
A life of wealth or poverty stricken
Neither what the story books foretell
Banished to life alone.
Her husband, gone
He was dead and gone years ago
Overcome with death, they say
Even alive, he was still dead
His destiny had been written on his face.
She must have expected it.
And so she carried on the same
Day in and day out
Setting the timer for the corn bread
Like watching life run out of breath.
Time is for the birds.
She will accompany him soon,
That timer is almost ready to sound.
She must be expecting it;
Destiny has begun to write its self on her face.
She watched him die well before he ran out of life
And now she will carry on the same.
You’d think she’d do something differently
Like take a bite of forbidden fruit
But rather than trying to live
She will simply follow suit
And live to die.
Time is for the birds.
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