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  • Lorraine Johnson

[28] On The Fringe

She used to fill the edges

of the worn out streets—

and the random lines,

where zinc shacks meet.

Her smile deep—

oh so wise.

And the children, yes,

they knew her eyes.

Moving through a life unknown,

of unspoken and longing moans.

Words were few, yet always stirred,

with voice of soul, always blurred.

She used to smile, through scattered teeth,

and cup her hands, to expose her plea,

with hope it would bring a worthy thing,

so she could show her inner 'yi.'

She used to sell her roasted peanuts,

from her shambled woven chair.

And feed her aching spirit,

with a dose of country ale.

Yes, she used to be,

and have a name,

along worn out streets

where zinc shacks meet.

But now she is a long lost flame,

imprinted gently on the fringe.

No tears of shame did she leave behind

only a rightful cry for one-time fame.


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