Bag Ladies

hot noon sun, the easy flow of traffic
now condensed, bumper to bumper,
police sirens a block away, bus exhaust
a gray cloud moving toward the porch.

drivers glance up, contact your eyes,
then back to business in their
BMW sedans, a shift or two
and they pass the bus, soon they
hit another light two blocks down,
their tires aching for asphalt.

bag ladies seem to be in town
today, shopping in the gutters, big play
on wheel covers, lost speedometers,
the flotsam of a big city
in their bags.

a drunk or two passes by, carrying sacks of used
hamburgers, the ketchup leaking red,
their eyes filled with mucus,
one wears a Chiefs hat backwards,
his shoes some rich child’s Crocs, his
toes peering out at broken beer bottles
and choked-back tears.