No Shoes Lady


there she sits
on the dirty curb
ratty black and brown hair
falling on her shoulders
in her deep sullen eyes
the clothes that hang loosely on her body
are brown and tattered
flap in the breeze
that washes a chill over the scene
but for just a moment
her toes flinch
because her feet
are bare
but then the sun beats down again 
on her shoulders
her tired broken back slunched
city bus drives past,
blocking my view of her
for just a second
and then she's there again
a book in her
broken hands
(beat poetry?
some forgotten novel?)
she is engrossed
the world spins around her
but she is motionless
and as she goes to turn a page
an old black man
with an afro
pokes his head out of one of the 
head shops
--hey, no shoes lady
you left your glasses in my store again
she looks up immediately
(she knows her place in Society)
then gracefully 
(with more grace than is expected)
she lifts herself
from the cement curb
and strolls over to the 
black man's head shop
along the way a bounce develops
in her jouncy step
and when she reaches the doorway
she outstretches her dirty arms
to the black man
who has been standing there
waiting for her
they embrace
I see his yellow-white teeth
break through pitch black lips
and when they both disappear
into the head shop
my heart my dreams
fall
I cross the street
to the curb shere she sat
she's left her book on the sidewalk
I pick up the dog-eared copy of
corso
(beat poetry after all)
and examine it
corners bent, pages ripped
scribbles below each poem
comments and feelings
a commotion from behind
and I hear
no shoes lady
saying goodbye to the
black head shop owner
bells on the shop door jingle
and she begins to come my way
(before she spots me)
I drop the book 
and scurry to set myself down
on a bench
with a good view of
no shoes lady
as she strolls back to her curbseat
the street vendors all greet her
--got those slick glasses back, eh
no shoes lady?
--hey, no shoes lady
you'd leave your head
to bake on the sidewalk
if it wasn't screwed on
ain't that right
no shoes lady?
and she smiles
shakes her head
--you KNOW it's right, man
she yells back
and she adjusts
thick-rimmed black square glasses
with yellow lenses
--yup, those are some fine ass glasses
no shoes
yells another vendor
--be a real shame if you lost um
--I know all about it, cat
she replies in a young loud voice
--now will you all leave me
the fuck alone
so I can read my poetry?!
--you always reading your damned poetry
someone claims
no shoes lady pauses for a second
and then shouts
--'s better than working for a living
ain't it, ah ha!
she throws her head back in a 
juvenille laugh
and all the street vendors join in
they all agree
even I give a chuckle
(I'm laughing at myself
my need to conform;
I work for a living)
she waves a hand at all of them
and then goes on with her life
she picks her poetry up off the ground
and then lays down
on her back
on the dusty curb
now from my strategic position
I see the soles of those feet
which surely have traveled
millions of miles
the soles are thick
pebbles and bits of dirt
cling to the bottoms of those
wise feet
the toenails are clipped short
tuffs of fine hairs
stick out on the rough toes
I'm surprised
despite the fact that she shuffles around
barefoot,
the tops of her large manly feet
are sparkling clean
strong, clean, traveled feet
with a history
I can read the poetry on her face
each expression
transmits a phrase
the words dance on her cheeks
sometimes she smiles
and others she nods her head
in agreement
agreeing with the poet
and then 
suddenly
without warning
her face sags
a pensive air overtakes her
this woman who appeared to be so
lively
vivacious
outgoing
now seems lost in her own solemn world
(does she know I'm watching?)
her face looks dead
her body cold
but I peer into her eyes
those brown eyes set deep in
a pale face streaked with dirt
she seems on the surface 
overly content
no shoes lady loves life
loves HER life
but those eyes, that face
tell a different story
she had dreams once
an aspiration of greatness
everyone was going to know her name
her real name, her true name
the name given to her by those long lost parents
no shoes lady was supposed to be
famous
live a life of wealth
(but not of luxury or extravagence)
she had ideals
she had desires
she planned to work her way up
all the way to the top
and she'd live in an apartment
in Manhattan
a woman like
no shoes lady belongs on the stage
I can picture her there
(standing downstage center)
the lights down low
and her sweet voice
fills the theatre
touches the audience's soul
and when the monologue is through
they applaud with fury
throw red roses at her feet
(her bare feet)
and now she's recollecting
these dreams
her childhood fantasies
and it almost loooks like a tear is forming
becuz none of the dreams came true
but no shoes lady is strong
she won't let the world see her cry
(not to mention her friends
the scuzzy street vendors)
she sits up
pulls her bare knees
up to her chest
and sets her poetry down on the sidewalk
then she runs a 
(slightly quivering)
hand
through her razzled greasy hair
and over her sunburned youthful face
and after another moment
of reflection
she hops to her feet
and walks over to one of the vendors
with her book back in hand
even from my seat on my bench 
I can hear their conversation
--no shoes lady
you ain't gettin' all depressed over there
reading your poetry,
are you?
--course not, Joe
Don't worry about me
Cuz you know I can hold my own
don't you think
--Fuck ya, no shoe
course you can hold your own
a sensitive psychic tone
to this conversation
and I can feel the mental bond 
between the two
(the enlightened bums)
she pauses for a moment
and then smiles
--Thanks lots, Joe
he wraps his arms
around her tired shoulders
and there they stand
pondering life's
trials and tribulations
--you wanna read me some of that poetry of yours
no shoes?
wanna read me some corso?
--how 'bout I read you some Lindsay
--who's that no shoes?
(and there's a half puzzled look on his face)
--Oh, she's someone I used to know
someone who had dreams
ambitions
and from the pocket of her
well worn, thrift store
pea coat
she pulls a tight wad 
of wrinkled papers
(I know it's her
she's "lindsay"
I know
and the street vendor knows it, too)
he stands there
watching her gentle hands
as she smooths out
the creases
she moves slowly
as though second guessing
her decision
and Joe is patient
that's when I hear the city bus
approaching the curb
no shoes lady
she hears the bus too
and frantically she shoves 
the poetry
back in her pea coat pocket
--Joe, hey, I'm in a rush
gotta find my way
into San Fran
Here in Berkeley
they're not too generous with the change
maybe I could bum some dough
off unsuspecting tourists
in the big city
--hope you find what you're looking for
no shoes lady
--ah, I ain't looking for anything, Joe
and she turns her back on him
and scurries toward the bus
but before climbing on
handing the driver her stolen bus pass
she turns to me
--don't cry for my dreams shattered
I've got everything I need
to be happy
sometimes I'm too happy
so don't worry, hipster
just put a little change in our cups
once in a while
then she gets on that magical bus
(after curtsying, giving a smile
and a wink)
I'm left all alone
with my success
my dreams fulfilled
my wealth 
and my unhappiness




Poetry.