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)
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