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Quasimodo

The taxi slowed at the lights
and I spotted her.
Our paths crossed again,
for just a short time.

For warmth,
she'd wrap up in newspaper,
shuffling by,
rummaging through bins.

If you spoke to her,
she'd scurry off,
in short, stilted steps,
my little Quasimodo.

All bent she'd
glance, sideways,
scared, but defiant,
swearing at you, cursing

'Bloody bitch'
What d'you want eh!
What d'you want? '
and edge backwards.

On winter days I'd see her
in the café.
She'd trundle in
for scraps and solace.

'Cup of tea? ' they'd say,
she'd never answer,
just grab the cup
and hurry away.

Her hands were callused,
her long, fingernails, dirty
her back, stooped,
that little hump, so sad.

I'd give her a few coins,
so that she'd cheer up,
but often I worry
that's how I'll end up.

poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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