Webbed shawl wrapped
tightly 'round bony shoulders;
One hand pressed to
her throat.

She saunters through the
crowded street like a
ghost.
People move away from her.
Some laugh, roll their eyes.
Some fear her, give her
space.
Mothers pull wide-eyed, staring children
closer.

"Never mind her," they say.
She smiles menacingly--
a wide, toothless grin.
"Aren't I pretty?"

Thick black mascara,
with points like a star,
surrounds her wild blue eyes
and drips down onto hollow cheeks.

Is she mad?
Is she suffering, locked in a crazed mind,
escaping the horror of life?

Ugly, scaly feet stuffed carelessly
into cheap, gold sandals.
Dirt crusts around protruding ankle bones.

Ratty hair--long, white-gold,
scraggly, draping over
shoulders, crawling in
tangles down her scrawny
back.

Who is this woman?
Where did she come from?
Does anyone care?

We fear people like her.
She makes us feel uneasy,
guilty.
We turn our heads in disgust.

She growls, flexes her razor-sharp claws
like a cat.
Stay back!
Keep away!
We stroll on into our comfortable lives.
The lady in white descends
into the darkness
of the night.