in the eye of a storm

She walks on tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
Old cardboard boxes stacked in a heap
and aluminum cans that fill a red polythene bag --
These are her daily wares for all the world to see.
What care she --
even if her goods sell cheap?
There is no mobile bill to pay for;
What is Zara to her?
Or Goldenvillage or Swenson's or Carrefour?
A hole or two (or three or four) on her ragged habiliments
is not considered much of an impediment.
She stops at every garbage bin on the pavement
and unperturbed by the stares from passing teens
brought up with cable TV and the internet
and coffee bean ice-blended on weekends,
she reaches inside with her emaciated fingers.
And I wonder --
did her heart or mind ever linger
over her own unfortunate circumstance?

And she walks with tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
At a snail's pace she moves through the throng,
oblivious to the bustle of the traffic and pedestrians.
This bent, haggard object of pity;
what care she --
even if in the eye of a storm?

---- circa 15th october 2003.