Nearby us lives a crazy lady.
Unknowable age, stringy grey hair.
Bespectacled rheumy blue eyes,
disconnected, uncomprehending,
fixate along hot deserted streets,
into her mental vanishing point.
Dull shabby house painted mousy pink:
faded blue-striped awnings sag from age,
tattered hints of vanished gaiety
before Occupant became Madness.
Windows taped from inside with tinfoil,
corseted with locked police bars,
stagnant green pool breeding mosquitoes.
Little girl points finger, unabashed:
"Look, Mama! La Vieja Loca!"
Hush now, child, it's impolite to stare. La ViejaLoca is harmless.
Pitiable, friendless old woman.
Why does her thin shadow scare me so? La Vieja Loca might be me.
I'm glad I discovered this lovely piece of writing and an intriguing character. Such an enjoyable and effective description. And, of course, I love the final line, because, guess what, "la Vieja Loca" could also be me.
Lannie, I think many people in todays culture would just as soon not want to meet La Vieja Loca, because they, like you, may see the same reflection. Damn good writing.
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Axilea
Cheers,
Dan
Peace,
Dayvid