The spindly woman at the crossroads,
a tin plate she has in her outstretched hand,
begged for alms singing hymns in praise of God,
from motorists stopping by the traffic lights.
With her scanty wear and unkempt hair,
she shields her modesty, whatever humble that was,
with a rag, just enough to prove it was made of cloth,
thinking of the warmth of her long lost family.
She also fancies she rode similar cars with family,
only to brag about it with rest of the beggars,
all of who dream alike, each looking out for themselves,
but into the bond of vagabonds sharing but small change.
When roads are deserted on Sundays and holidays,
rowdies reign with impunity and one such youth insulted her,
from the opened up window of his car gawking suggestively,
offered her a ride into the bush for some cash.
And pat she swished her sharp plate in a wide arc,
targeting his craning neck out of the car window,
cutting it merciless with a deep gash, for blood filled her plate
making her laugh all the way to the police station.
The prospect of getting locked up in a dingy cell,
with a similar plate in her hands, but then made of plastic
that has rounded edges, made the woman laugh more,
what with a future in custody of wolves on a bunk.
But no sooner the van came to a halt in front of a jail,
than followed an ambulance crossing its path
and out came a stretcher to carry her slim bag of bones,
to the mortuary and beyond, where God waited in loneliness.