Mad Woman - Trudie Shannon

She walks the wet, windblown street,
A tatter of human flotsam.
Her voice tumbles before her
A persistent litany.
She articulates each word into the rain full air,
Rants to the invisible,
Plays both sides of some heated conversation,
She berates herself, her anger
The heartache, the cruelty, her loneliness.
But nevertheless, she strides purposefully on,
Oblivious to the strangers she passes.
Were she a poet in performance,
She would receive a standing ovation
But isolate, on a people filled street
Her madness is pointedly ignored
Hidden inside upturned collars
And embarrassed glances into shop windows.
She walks the wet windblown street
A tatter of human flotsam
And we are shamed by her.

Trudie Shannon