One that got away
This little old lady I meet Has nothing to do with poetry Coming home late from work I pass her Say once a week, maybe it's a Thursday.
She is entirely dressed in red Not garish though, not bizarre or fancy And not at all a tramp.
Tiny, smart and silvered. She's still pretty.
I am going home from work, and she Is coming from goodness knows what - Pub, dustbins, cleaning — no knowing.
And I could not ask her.
She has nothing to do with poetry And she has nothing to do with sociology.
Social workers may be out looking for her To divide her into classes Doctors to separate her into diseases Politicians to flatten her into statistics Poets to dispose of her in images.
She is not to do with any of that.
I did ask her once 'You all right, duck?'
First time I came on her, sat on a low church wall.
Surprised, she seemed — as if she wouldn't be all right! She has nothing to do with horror stories or signs of the times.
Here she comes with her small packed carrier bag I am not going to tell you anything more about her.
She makes a track going here and there Inhabitant.
Jenny Joseph
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