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.

---

Pond Street Nora