Grocery cart near, she sits
tattered book in lap,
mutters, sometimes yells
talks aloud to no one.
Page eight, crawl through,
into that letter E, straight lines.
They won’t follow, can’t see me.
I fit in this book! FLAT SPINE!
Invisible. I hide in air,
melt on pages with big letters.
Home is no where. Go ahead.
Jump into the story. Whatever it is.
Show them. I AM SOMETHING!
She stands up, unsteady,
lands on top of book,
face first in torn pica print.
And she disappears
from your corner,
into a pauper’s grave.
Photo credit: Wikipedia
lillian the home poet 
Wow. Brilliant.
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Oh my! You literally made my morning! Many thanks — so very glad you liked it.
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very compelling writing, it brought to mind Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series at times and then I got to the end and realized I had misread the poem. A closer second read revealed this as a portrait of a homeless person’s inner thoughts. Quite a poem!
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So glad you liked it, Melinda. Somehow, with the bell ringers and the holiday season, my mind twerks this way.
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I like how your mind works! It gives your poems a fresh perspective that I enjoy reading. You’re welcome.
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