Rain eats the paper bag
she carries from the Chinese grocer,
bottom collapses,
strange plum-like fruit escapes,
little yellow suns rolling downhill
into the foggy harbour.
She hasn’t slept in days — I know
those black halos, tobacco hair.
I walk uphill to her, having planned
this rescue a million times.
She questions being an artist,
her envious glares as
exotic cars like ocean liners
sail streets to palatial islands.
Her with old rubber boots, broken bag.
No. She laughs. Happily.
She knows who she is.
Light is orange.
Red.
Stop.
Wait.
Rickshaw.
Bus.
Bus.
Ambulance.
Eternity.
Green.
Hurry.
A million new people in the spot
she stood a moment ago —
none of them,
her.
