I remember her.
The old woman
The one who came up to me on a bright workday morning
As I entered my car to drive off to my good-ol-boy job
You know, the one where the men go off in the afternoons
And play golf the rest of the day,
They take three, two-week vacations a year
And drive the latest lux cars
"Oh, hey, lets drive a Range Rover even if we live in the primo suburbs. It'll be worth it when we go the country to duck hunt once a year."
There I was dressed to kill for the look of it.
(So they'll tell me how nice I look as I type
A thousand words per minute
For a pittance of their salaries.)
And she came up to me.
She smiled and asked my what time it was.
I was still startled by her approach.
I knew almost all of her in an instant.
Her gathering of her self.
Her wraps of torn, soiled clothes
Attempting some resolve of dignity
A beautiful old broach adorned her neckline.
It sparkled.
So did her eyes.
It was her eyes
Speaking volumes to me
Her withered face
Showed how she was before the lines
Before her current "lifestyle of the poor and downtrodden"
She had great beauty
Deep
And Great
I gave her the time of day
And she gave me something back
She commented on my beauty
My beauty, hA!
Her's outshone mine a thousand-fold
In mere perseverance.
