I watched a strong woman today;
she carried long ladders on her leg.
She was no window cleaner:
there were no cloths, no bucket,
just a pair of scuffed patent heels and a
handbag of fake crocodile—or alligator,
I forget if they have either
She must have been an OAP
though she tried to look young.
On both counts she almost succeeded
but it was the ladders, you see.
She hadn’t checked her behind
in that cheval mirror at the
Department of Work and Pensions
I admired how deftly she wove through
the onslaught in the street.
Not too shabby in her moves, I’ll give her that.
All the while carrying those ladders,
unaware of her great strength
yet in dogged denial of her
Maybe it’s just as well;
knowing things isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
A person needs to dream that
they can amount to more than the
in the absent mirror in the
room devoid of humanity
at the DWP B&B.
Milady there, she
carries her burdens like her ladders,
behind her and out of sight.