The Bag Lady

She’s sitting on the sidewalk with

The pieces of her life all neatly

Folded in the 

Bags laid by her side.

She’s staring at the tin can that

Is clinking on occasion from the 

Coins thrown in by

People walkin’ by.

The music of the coins

Is banging through the air;

A jangle on the ear drums of

Those who do not care,

And a chorus of rebuke for

Those who would despair,

And the bag lady has

No tears to cry.

Staring in the distance she

Can see the years of labor that

She dreamed would be a 

Shelter from the night.

Nimble fingers flying she would

Feed the hungry needles sewing

Clothes she now cannot 

Afford to buy.

When the factory moved,

She stared in disbelief at

The shattering of dreams and

The coldness of the street;

And the fingers that she lived by

Were too worn to repeat,

But she walked away,

Determined not to die.  

People pass her every day,

Thinking they can walk away;

Toss a coin to  buy

Some peace of mind.  

We can’t see her way back when,

She was just like us, but then,

Fortune may be choosing

You or I.

Life upon the streets is

A factory of despair.

The heart could drown in sorrow,

When no one seems to care, but

The lady has her answer

Each day when she is there,

And the miracle of life

Is you and I.