There’s a woman who lives near me 
Alone in an old apartment.
A little run down, her and her abode.
From the shade of our quiet tree-lined street
I see her dusty balcony during my evening walks
A rickety wicker chair piled high with
a decade’s worth of newspapers.
On slow Sunday mornings
When half our street is still asleep
Her cats luxuriate in the golden sunlight
Streaming through the trees
The dust motes of the balcony
Of no consequence to them.
Every once in a while I see her on the street
To and fro on some errand
Her clothes unironed,
Her hair an afterthought.
Looking like the smell of a thousand mothballs
In forgotten trunks full of old saris.
I have to feed the cats,
she tells me as she shuffles hurriedly away.
And I thought of those cats
Happily sunning themselves
And the woman furtively lurking
in the depths of the old dusty apartment.
(NaPoWriMo2024)
