Snapshot
She holds her life in an
old, tattered hold-all
Clutched close to her chest
In case her past escapes.
Old sepia stills of mother,
father,
Sisters, cousins,
And one of a son long lost,
not forgotten.
The rotten, grasping
bastard
Took almost all that she
had,
Drank it, and vanished.
Now, vaguely ball-shaped
and huddled
She shuffles un-seen and
silent
From behind a bus
Sent flying skywards
In seconds
By an oblivious motorist.
Her memories set free
On Angel’s wings
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