Della

From a café’ that’s dark, her lovely face shadows, she sees supermarket yards, dressed in night’s sentience, across trolley she’s heard, the bums take any bet, spirits rise with a spark, she sings like a sparrow, allows herself to carry on, it’s a rare essence, not cut to the marrow, when heeding life's lesson, she can’t forget that lot, they don’t fire arrows, precise in each movement, but feels in their presence, a list bred with sorrow, what to give as presents, if there’s ever a chart, to tick off forebearance, she earns full marks, all of us vagrants