A new poem by Ewan Whyte

Bag Woman Singing Into a Carrot

Turning down the street,
passing “leering” Louis’s Cafe,

your songs a crosshatching to
footsteps, talking pedestrians,

and street sounds. You are lovely
as always with your thickly

matted red hair, unwashed clothes
and cheap cloth hat placed

on the ground before you. You sing
cheesy Cyndi Lauper songs

a cappella into the large carrot you
hold as an imaginary microphone.

Today a group of teenage girls
sneer openly at you, but you sing on.

Every time I see you, I give you
some change, perhaps in thanks

for your cheerful presence and
however conscious humour.

And also for your carrots, which
you have not been merciful toward.