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What makes me
stall on
a

possible
conversation with
the bag lady

sitting across the
aisle from
me?

She's
more than
likely a mother,

grandmother or other
form of
matriarch

with
layers of
stories only people

who have lived
like her
posses.

A
publisher's dream,
assuming she speaks.

Her Walmart cart
contains two
throw

pillows
embroidered with
posies.  They are

brown.  As I
write this,
I

remember
a friend's
cousin.  It could

be - let me
know.  Still:
bandana,

yellow
plastic grocery
bag, water bottle.

White hair, wrinkled
skin, winter
hat.

I
hope she
has a home.