The Rag-Picker


It’s not about her torn clothes, or her blank stare,
Nor her young years, a number I won’t share.
It’s not about the fact that she picked dirty rags,
And crumpled paper and plastic bags.
It’s not about how she takes care of a smaller girl,
Or that they seem to eat what others hurl.

It’s about the smile on her face as I pass by,
The happiness that almost makes one cry.
It’s about dealing with pain and fears,
As we’ve seen each other do for years.
It’s about that one look that passes between us,
As she sweeps and I wait for the bus.
It’s about the childishly happy wave she gives,
From across the sewer where she lives.
It’s about the happiness that lights our faces,
When we see each other, from our different places.

It’s about how close we are in each other’s heart,
No matter the way our lives are far apart.

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