observations 1

she sits on the bus using her hand bag like brail. enveloped by a dowdy, drab coat that shapes her.
ankles drip with lard like indolence that hang flesh pelmets over her broad shoes.
i cannot see her face for she sits in front of me staring steadfastly at the rain speckled window. the back of her head shows a life of routine Monday's and Friday's.
of washing days and fish.
linens and starched creases.
i imagine her arms, elbow deep in suds as she wears out the patterns of her chipped crockery with soap and cloth.
chubby arms and red raw elbows.
a lifetime of potato peelings and sour gin.
i wonder if anyone has told her that this is the twenty first century?
she, canute like, defies the tides of time turning, this lady on the bus, this totem of camphor and womans own.