Is It Poetry
The Old Maid
Today on the bus I saw them.
To much all alone by themselves.
No one was willing to help,
except for a man like her by himself.
I saw a young child with a child.
While the face at the window knew better.
Younger than she, her older brother.
Not knowing what change was to come after.
All if not most to fat none would want them.
Where the youngest of age bore her young.
None having a man they could count on.
The death of one maid they have come from.
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