The Wanderer

She doesn't have a helmet
or any other gear for a dive
a worn hockey team logo is her crest
an insignia. She parades through the cement walk,
her subjects give her wide berth.
A satchel graces her sloping shoulder; not of anything mystical.
nothing, nothing but small treasures.
no one would care about them but her
knotting a garbage bag, she bends
a search for buried treasure
and puts something nondescript into the bag in her other hand
I hold the station door open for the weary traveller;
her smile bears the ascension of knighthood
inside it smells of sweat and beer
which may very well be
her only supper.