Beggar lady, in the white mist,
by Mary Naylor
They say you carry a ragbag heart,
hidden inside your rattletrap cart.
I wonder, were you once loved and kissed?
Were you once someone's idea of bliss?
Were there babies you cuddled to your breast?
Do you still thrill to a rainbow's arc?
But the only answer is the creak of wobbly cart,
And something wet dropping to her fragile chest,
As slowly she shuffles toward the park,
The pauper lady with the ragbag heart.