An old woman dances for

coins. The square is busy,

it’s Easter Sunday and we are

at a booth on the street

eating sopas, watching little

crowds gather around her.

How few seem to give anything,

how small her take.

Tourists drift past and laugh,

she is a pretty funny sight.

Where does she come from?

What brings her here?

The sun is relentless,

we are under a canopy,

a haven of a sort,

money to pay for our food,

a house to go back to,

enough to feel guilty about.

She has a big radio,

and wears work boots and short shorts,

like a strange go-go dancer, working her hips.

She’s in front of a pharmacy,

the druggists watch and

nod their heads to the beat.

by Cher Bibler