It’s
a very large department store bag, rectangular. The label is big round letters
on shiny exteriors. The bag sways down a Collingwood street. Slung over her
shoulder by golden cords, what’s in it? A dress? A spring coat? Shoes for Oaks
Day? Perhaps the answer is being transmitted through her oblong phone. She
struggles with it in her free hand, thumb-numbering. Testing this balancing act
are paving potholes, and ill-mannered motorists who parked their cars over the
gutter. November sunlight warms the bag lady, skirting cats, catching breath. A
hat? A fascinator? She turns the corner and is gone.
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