That woman near the bridge
is weeping, in a tirade.
Tears gloss her sockets. Cheeks
wiped raw. Passers-by
avert their faces, quicken stride.
or share a smirk, as she
turns shrilly from her partner
and, hunching slackly
on the railings, whimpers.

I know her. She is fractious, clumsy.
stupid. Two days a week
she cleans my house
badly. She drinks sometimes
and quarrels. So do I.
She plays the radio all day
or telly. She'll never read these lines
nor want to. But here she leans distraught,
her head on forearms, sobbing,
her pain proclaiming her importance
to herself, and pointing out to me
in some part her significance.