She’s slender and walks briskly

A package in a red and white polka dot bag perched on her head

A stick too short to be a walking stick is in her right hand

She swings it gently to and fro

Making you think she’ll hit you if you dare her.

She walks briskly.

Her skin is dark, her hair is short and matted

Her dress, now dirty and torn in spots

Her eyes – when I walk past her – are wide and clear

Her face in profile is relaxed

Her smile is shy and vacant

Her stride is brisk.

And yet purposeful.

I see her every morning.

We walk the same route

My nameless friend and I

But…..apart from my cleanly pressed purple dress

And neatly coifed weave

Why would you say she’s “mad”

And I “sane”?