The door opened and she stepped out
her walk a half shuffling, stumbling trot …
skin tight around the structure
of her tired homely face
framed in hair a wispy white …
*
Each time I see her we smile and greet
we do not stop but walk on down the street,
her mission serving someone else’s needs,
and so our lives we live …
*
We are neighbours ... what does that mean?
I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me
and soon we’ll both be history,
dead to life and to each other …
*
We could so easily stop and change
the pattern set on both our courses;
what is her life and what is mine
but time to share before we fly?
*
Dennis Crompton © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)
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