By Laurie James, Salida, Colorado
A woman I saw yesterday had
small crooked hands that clutched
at her coat to keep the cold out.
Her head was wrapped in scarves,
like snakes ready to strike.
I watched as she chose
one small white onion from the bin
and dropped it into her bag.
Her eyes were lowered as she walked away.
A thief of onions right there.
I did nothing, but turned to the stack
of apples, thinking all the while of the
white onion resting in the bottom of her bag –
its layers coiled around itself;
its fate, a frying pan with cheap
melted margarine; the smell permeating
her small space, where her breath
fouls the air as she sleeps.
I could be that woman.
Hungry for the pungent bulb;
its sweetness
all there is.
