The Old One
Stooped over, walking slowly, a crawl…
Moving like the setting sun.
She, her, the Old One, I don’t know her name,
Where she’s going or where she’s gone.
Every morning she passes before dawn,
Every evening she comes back again after the sunset.
Her clothing is worn, she carries a bag,
A housekeeper, a maid, I bet.
Where is she going, where has she gone,
Before there’s another sunset, or a new dawn.
Her back is bent, she can’t stand straight,
Her hands are cracked, she walks with a gait.
Her hair is always pulled up, her skin is dark,
Wrinkled from time and the sun,
The same outfit every day,
Where is she going and where has
she gone.
Do you wonder what she will do,
She’s an old one, yet she still works, does she have security,
How to save herself, when the time comes,
What will she do when she’s done.
Where is she going and where has she gone…
She, her, The Old One
This poem is melancholy in how it is written. The oldness of the woman and the fact that she has given her life away for this job shows a unpleasant part of domestic labor.
ReplyDeleteI wonder about people a lot of the time when I look at them. Who are they, where are they going, where are they coming from? This made me realize that if I saw this woman then I would be questioning the same thing. It also makes me wonder what I'll be doing when I'm that age.
ReplyDeleteChilling. You use your words so well that I could actually picture the scene. I love the description of the old woman with her cracked hands. That just shows how hard she worked within her life to have hands in such a condition. Great job.
ReplyDeleteLike the poems, show how the workers actually feel.
ReplyDelete