transit notes,having attempted to adjust a watch which after all was not there

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whatever it was they called her,
  it meant she was crazy.
 summer youd see her like clockwork,
  dressed always just the same,
  packmule-pacing curling street
                  (all of it)
  and stopping every dozenorso lead
   steps,stomping her shitkickers,
  sad ox eyes tied up behind her as though
    someone was following,always
    a look on her drawn,
                    wan face of
     hope that it might be the case. 

today in the diamond dead of winter,
 tractor's jinglebell chains
   jolly up the blacktop,
     bonedry in the frostbit sun
   as it piles snow,
    proud as a redfaced child,
     precariously close to the
     jokes of walls that
     almost-enclose me
   and slides blind out
     into the street at whims
     to almost kiss the noses
       in the little toytruck
                        flock.

   like clockwork
     there she is scarved
     stomping her shitkickers
     to the centre of her street
     and wagging the trucks
     through with her empty hands
     like herding sheep,
     natural as anything.

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