Unforgotten Homeless

We called her Post Office Patty. Always wore jackets.
Hearsay shared among townsfolk, she chose life on the streets,
shrugged chances of comfortable subsistence, opportunity.

Waiting for Big Daddy from the Flea Market.
Word got around he gave her money—daily.
She ate at Luby's every night, back room.

Something about her—her eyes, shiny,
sky blue against rugged skin, thin, frail,
weathered as cracks in dry wood.

Slept in parks. One night, another homeless raped her.
She got pregnant. Baby taken away. She pushed
a walker around, blankets draped over the handle.

Summer and winter, helpless as a dirty, worn rag,
she limped away, dragging her feet. Stringy threads
hung from her extra-long pants, covering her shoes.