Waiting To Go
She eyes them from her locked window;
the busy people, all those with places to be.
Phones to harried ears and carrier bags
bumping bruises to shins that will forget
how they got there and then keep
on going somewhere else while they fade.
The window should smear with her breath,
should summon her fingerprints pressed
over the months lumping sluggish
beneath her on those same pavements
where the old chewing gum stains are
the only constants. She follows
every journey, every stranger
who passes and never looks up.
Her bags are always packed ready,
but sat there homing the dust
by the door she can’t open
to the stairs she dares not go down
to the door that leads to probably nothing
more than those dirt-scabbed grey pavements.