A newspaper article on “Homeless in San Diego” wrote an article that included her. Named her Delores or Doris, something like that. Saw her every day, going and coming to work or home. Driving by, seeing her, wondering day after day, who she was.
Ragged woman…in
dirty army fatigues, worn out fatigues.
Long ratty gray hair, wrinkled hands, couldn’t see her face but once
when she shook the dirty mass back to tie up with a red bandanna.
Her face, well, her face. Must have been beautiful sometime, beauty was still there, hidden with wrinkles, dirt, frown, lines…fine bones. Fine hands, long legs.
Her face, well, her face. Must have been beautiful sometime, beauty was still there, hidden with wrinkles, dirt, frown, lines…fine bones. Fine hands, long legs.
Sometime maybe thirty, forty years ago, now ragged worn out.
Doris
pushed her shopping cart up Washington over to Broadway, back again.
I've watched Doris for two years maybe. Each day she stretched out skinny arms, pushed heavy cart, had sleeping bag, pieces of junk, where she slept was a mystery Sometimes I could see her curled up in a corner of empty supermarket, sometimes behind garbage bin.
I've watched Doris for two years maybe. Each day she stretched out skinny arms, pushed heavy cart, had sleeping bag, pieces of junk, where she slept was a mystery Sometimes I could see her curled up in a corner of empty supermarket, sometimes behind garbage bin.
Didn’t know what she ate Tried to give her money a few times she swore at
me, walked away, pride maybe.
Winter and rain, saw less and less, just glimpses
of her, there under overhangs or trees.
Then, one day, the next next next, Doris wasn’t there. Never saw her again.
Wonder what, where, when. Doris went somewhere.
I wonder where these people went. Why does this man have such a huge load of his collection?
