She Meets the Bag Lady
(sans frontieres par excellence)

The bag lady again,

inhabitant of no city, dweller of dream,

The one dressed in the best of wool,

the shiniest of thrifty shop of Gucci shoes.

You could not tell but for a slight frayed edge,

moth bitten hole this side of sleeve.

In her thrilling dazzling mocha green castor scarf and skirt,

between you and I and her and Liz,

she is the best in dress,

albeit the shine of shoe be made of spit.

This lady of color and of coordination,

with many wrinkles to her smile and to her face,

many wrinkles to her thighs and to her belly.

This hallucinatory woman of many wrinkles

sets her mind to go to Paris,

sets her will to go on and find Alice,

that same Alice,

who with much malice interfered in her love,

way back when.

So this my lady of fifty, of sixty, of seventy,

lined incised

slight trembling fingers

sets a light to this one last rag,

soaked in virgin olive, pure oil will not do.

Sets a light in the tin

garbage can

in fire and warms her hands

this bag lady of eighty,

And on she goes to catch a bus,

on her way to find a way to go to Paris,

to see the tower, to sip the wine, to touch the statue,

to fall in love and to find the malice.

Last I saw her, the bag lady, she was singing songs inside a barge,

inside a bus, impeccable as always.

This bag lady

who likes to be fed on grapes.

—By Brazilian poet Erica Weick