Travels through the frontiers

She Meets the Bag Lady
(sans frontieres par excellence)
The bag lady again, inhabitant of no city, dweller of dream

The one dressed in the best of wool,
the shiniest of thrifty shop of Gucci shoes,
you could not tell but for a slight frayed edge,
moth bitten hole this side of sleeve,
in her thrilling dazzling mocca green castor scarf and skirt,
between you and I and her and Liz,

she the best in dress,
albeit the shine of shoe be made of spit,
this lady of color and of coordination,
with many wrinkles to her smile and to her face,
many wrinkles to her thighs and to her belly,
this hallucinatory woman of many wrinkles

sets her mind to go to Paris,
sets her will to go on and find Alice,
that same Alice,
who with much malice interfered in her love,
way back way when.

So this my lady of fifty, of sixty, of seventy,

lined incised
slight trembling fingers
sets a light to this one last rag,
soaked in virgin olive, pure will not do,
sets a light in the tin garbage can
on fire and warms her hands.

this bag lady of eighty,

and on she goes to catch a bus,
on her way to find a way to go to Paris,
to see the tower, to sip the wine, to touch the statue,
to fall in love and to find the malice.

Last I saw her, the bag lady,
she was singing songs inside a barge,
inside a bus,
impeccable as always,

this bag lady

that likes to be fed on grapes.

________________________
beneath the lines
written here in Belo Horizonte, during a visit, a few years ago.  The bag lady was an elderly American woman, a creature of dream, travelling the world with a smile and a bunch of sturdy shopping bags. I met her at the bus station and we chatted briefly.
My poem appears in Dead Sleeping Shamans, by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli, May 2010.