Friday Morning Dining

She’s bent low, arms thrashing, all elbows and twisting shoulders
So as not to give the others a chance you see
So as not to lose out nor loosen her grip on yesterday’s meals,
Today’s tied-tight, black plastic bags.
Her generous bosom, once a nourisher of many now heaves
And sways this way and that against her rise and fall
Into and out of the throwaway worlds of those more fortunate than she,
Or removed in any case.
Upon grey, Friday morning wheelies now she sweats and curses
Old positions taken from her years before
Grappling with the current big news stories, “street blankets”
Hide her road food, but don’t keep it warm.

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