I wonder sometimes what she used to be like.
She walks the same sidewalks and crosses the same roads,
sometimes with a coffee.
A frown is plastered on her face;
A look of anger, contempt and confusion.
Her dirty blond hair falls on her shoulders,
dirty blond in both senses of the word.
The last time it was washed, only God can say.
And it hasn't been washed because it's been forgotten.
She doesn't see me when I walk my dog;
or her mind doesn't want her to.
I see her yard with grass to the sky;
that too has been forgotten.
She must be going somewhere awfully important
to be out all the time, walking the same route
day after day, month after month.
Or perhaps she already arrived there years ago.
She walks the same streets over and over again.
Oblivious to her surroundings, she mumbles about
New York and people she may have used to know.
Sometimes I wake up and I hear her screaming,
and sometimes I go walking and I see her
as that bloodcurdling unknown pitch escapes her being.
I wonder why she screams like that,
I wonder what it is she sees; who it is she hears.
And I wonder sometimes...what she used to be like.
Adding your comment:
Thank you 
After all, that's where poetry comes from, isn't it
