Not The Vagrant
Everybody knew her,
though nobody did,
not really.
Singing songs inside herself,
she pushed her trolleyful of life
before her everywhere,
up and down and round about
Pond Street station,
where she was always found,
though she was completely lost
at the end.
Her trolley, filled with bursting bags
of bits and bats, of this and that
and nothing much, was all she had.
She wore a scarf inside a scarf,
and a big brown coat
to keep her warm
in the Pond Street winters.
White trainers were
her choice of footwear,
and she could shift in them
if you were rude to her,
a terrifying comedy.
She was not inebriate,
not the vagrant,
she said, if asked,
though she trailed a fragrant fug,
thick enough to taste,
ripe, a little rotten,
and never forgotten.
Some say a baby sent her mad,
the one she had, it sent her crazy.
Maybe.
Only she would know.
It was long ago,
and Nora is long dead now,
but still she’s there, poor cow,
in all the Noras
right before us,
here and there,
and everywhere.
Writing Me Up 