Of the rags on the garbage litter
Clean and methodical
In choosing her bread and butter
Ironically derived from dirt and clutter.
The rags on the pile were the means of living
But crib she did not about anything
Duty to her was supreme
Never missed a day in sun or rain
Walkers passed her by ignoring her presence
She was much used to such pretence.
Then one morning when I smiled at her
Confused, she turned away with a stir
Stirred with the attention she did not command
And little did she know to demand
She was beaten and bruised at home
Yet, was on the job at dawn.
One morning I saw her with a little girl
Standing and gazing the school boundary wall
Curious to know her desire
I waited to see her and admire
The courage and determination
To seek an admission
Into a life of dignity and recognition
For someone who needed her protection
She succeeded in it or not I will know never
But my heart salutes the solitary picker.