by Elizabeth Thomas
I am the man
who will work for food.
At first, you would slow down
to get a better look.
I was a curiosity.
Now you hurry by
to grocery stores and power lunches.
I think I will stand here
a little bit longer.
I had a job.
I wore a tie.
And when I went to meetings
my opinion was respected.
My opinion –
was respected.
I am the old woman
who looks like your grandmother
from a certain angle.
Hunched over the K-Mart shopping cart.
Walking aimlessly through the park.
The one you tell your children
to stay away from.
My cart is full of the garbage
others take for granted.
The crust from a sandwich,
yesterday’s newspaper,
a pair of sunglasses,
one lens and one arm missing.
I had a mother once
and a doll with several changes of clothing
and pink, sequined high heels.
I had an older brother
who would protect me
from the other boys
because I was a looker!
On Sunday mornings
we would all go to church
together.
I am the woman-child
you shake your head at
as I stroll my baby down the street.
Our tax dollars, you say.
Yes, I made a mistake
but I’m not stupid
and I’m not lazy.
I’m young but I’m learning.
I’m not who you’re so sure I am.
I’m not the product of a broken home.
My father never beat me.
My mother’s not a crack-head.
I take good care of my child
and I have dreams.
I am the baby
in that young girl’s carriage.
My life is just beginning.
I could be anyone!
I could do anything!
I could make a difference.
Yet, when you hurry by
the man with the sign
or hide your children
from that old woman in the park
or turn your back
on the mother and her baby,
you are teaching me about life!
And I am
a quick
learner!