In a small and filthy doorway
A woman stands,
Long past the age of grace and elegance
She scowls at the world
Her hair grey and mottled,
Her scruffy composure bares no airs or grace.
As honest as dirt, and hard and brittle
Between her wrinkled lips
A fag hangs limply,
The orange tip throws a glow
About the narrow corner of her world.
She drags the acrid smoke
Between her crooked teeth
Plumes of thick and wispy smog
Billow around her decrepit form,
Her face pinched and sour.
A wrinkled leather paper droops in form of skin,
Her mind as stale as her breath
Wreaking of coffee and tobacco,
Bitter, in her being.
She collects the poison in her mouth
And spits a vile substance,
Letting it fall from her lips
With a wet slap as the saliva
Hits the grimy ground.
She flicks a butt of ash and smoulder
With little regard for its inevitable landing.
She turns heel, hunched against the cold
Drawing the collar of her mucky
Weathered coat as the wind ripples
Her fashionless, forgotten tartan skirt.
She is done with the world
And slams the wooden creaking
Door in her wake,
Shaking the flakes of lime green paint
That clings hopelessly
To the rotting and worn frame
To her miserable and petty abode.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.