The Gypsy Poem by Edmund V. Strolis

Each day she made her daily trip, down the lush green alley way.
Yes 'down' for 'up' would hardly do, for the place that she was heading.
Her dress all stitched and worn, the hems all thin and frayed.
With pride her mother kept her clean, on the wages she was saving.

This pathway lined with hollyhock, perfumed by a wall of rose.
So brilliant against the pearl white fence, shining in the summer's sun.
A fence that did not reach as far, as the screen door where she goes.
Within the shadow of the mansion, where all the washing must be done.

Now and then along her way, she hears the children scream with joy.
How could they know of her wide eyes spying, unblinking through the fence.
The clean and happy children romping, giggling carefree girls and boys.
Like her, the world was full of beauty, her spirit bloomed with confidence.

For her gypsy soul burned with an inner fire, fueled by a mother's laugh so wild.
These were good times she assured her and told her tales of desperate days.
When just a ghost she roamed the mean streets and struggled as a gypsy child.
Now rough hands gently tickling squeezed her, and they are rich in every way.