Bags

Bags are used to carry things in. For some it may be food; for some it may be clothes but for those who are less fortunate it may be something of value. It may be all that they have. The Homeless, with them, carry bags which are there memories of long ago, of what they have lost along the way. They are now walking homes, carrying along with them items of what they used to have in their shelves, in their dresser draws, in their cabinets. Some may carry pictures of their love ones, of a family no more, where ghost tread softly through an alley. What they once lost are now in their bags: duffle, back- packs, purses. To the Homeless bags are like their own life. If they bleed, their bags bleed. If they were stolen may God have mercy… For these bags were with them through the struggle, through the pain, wandering these lonely streets, searching for a home to put them in. Will they find it?

I remember walking Manhattan streets, bustling with cars and people. Everything seems to zoom in one speeded accord. When walking the streets of Manhattan in New York City you tend to look at certain characters. You can’t miss them. They are everywhere. The Homeless seems to make permanent fixtures among the sidewalks. You’ll see a few lying on benches; a few panhandling, a few breaking the law. When living on the streets you’ll find ways of keeping face no matter what it is.

Sometimes I tend to notice those who are far off. They don’t want to be seen; they just mind their own business and go on their way. I’ll notice a Bag Lady toddling away with her many bags. You knew she was from the streets by her clothes that she wore and even by her overhauled shopping cart. One knew she didn’t have a home. You can see her memories all in her bags that she carries. And one by one she counts them. Making sure everything is there, fixed in her memory. Here’s a little poem I made called The Bag Lady, I hope you’ll enjoy.

There once was a bag lady
That went up the street.
In her hands she carried
With her three bags, repeat.
It was told she was a murderess
Who was not very neat.
For in those bags was
Her ex-husband’s meat.
First bag carried his
Head and feet.
The second bag his body
Parts in shred, it seeped.
The third was the axe
She sought and did seek.
But it was the memory of it all
Is what she adored and did keep.