Her wheel creak, rusted, out of aligned, on a pushcart
nearly as ancient as the woman who pushes it is, wheels clacking out ahead of
her like a warning, a witch's chat straight out of Shakespeare, filling the
gaps left by the passing traffic.
She comes this way twice a day, one way after dawn the other
after dusk, a ritual so predictable I need no watch to tell the time of day
She, almost a ghost,
with her straw like hair and her white blouse and pants, creaking almost as
much as the wheels of the cart does, and perhaps with the same warning of doom,
wheels staring up the broth of her life, back and forth, carrying all she owns,
here and there, across this urban universe she knows too well, one creaking
wheel at a time
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