somewhere in the slums of a columbian city
on the tiered hillside
of continued existence
the old woman lays on a bed of
piled cardboard . . . discarded,
as is the surplus construction
over her head

she fears that no one will come
today . . to leave a cup of water
or tender a kindness . . .
a brush to her hair. . .
a bit a cloth bunched for a pillow
she fears the day with no word
or impish giggle
from the barefoot children who peek
through the curtain
not
the rats who run through
her scavenger’s maze
these
she will not bother to notice

she does not shout blame
or humiliate the hand
that toils on the hill for bits of bread and water
like her . . . breathing shadows
who straddle the expanse of life and death
flowing through trenches of dearth’s feces

this same old woman fears
in multiplicity
drinking from the unholy water
of many cities . . .
she will show a toothless smile
to the curious child who
stands over her bed


jeanne rené 9/03