The Shopping-Bag Lady

The Shopping-Bag Lady


You told people I would know easily
what the murdered lady had in her sack
which could prove she was happy
more or less.
As if they were a game,
the old women who carry all they own
in bags, maybe proudly, without homes
we think except the streets.
But if I could guess
(nothing in sets for example),
I would not. They are like those men
who lay their few things on the ground
in a park at the end of Hester.
For sale perhaps, but who can tell?
Like her way of getting money.
Never asking.
Sideways and disconcerting.
With no thanks, only judgment.
“You are a nice girl,”
one said as she moved away
and then stopped in front of a bum
sitting on the bench who yelled
that he would kill her
if she did not get away from him.
She walked at an angle
not exactly away
but until she was the same
distance from each of us.
Stood still, looking down.
Standing in our attention
as if it were a palpable thing.
Like the city itself
or the cold winter.
Holding her hands.
And if there was disgrace,
it was God’s.
The failure was ours as she remained
quiet near the concrete wall
with cars coming
and the sound of the subway
filling and fading
in the most important place
we have yet devised.


Linda Gregg

Posted over on Poetry Foundation