The Lady with the Pink Backpack

she worries about the cat.
hovering outside the gate, she stammers
and stutters, shifting her weight
back and forth
from left faded sneaker to right and back again.
on a crisp morning she stands at the corner
staring intently at the settting Moon.
her usual outfit, denim skirt, black jacket,
white hat, blue scarf, thick socks,
her signature accessory:
a pink backpack.
I stop behind her to snap a photo;
we have greeted each other so many times
I always wanted to capture her essence of
innocence, her rounded face and body,
her simplicity, her earnest expressions
of concern mixed with a certain reproach
about the cat who bounds over the fence
effortlessly and disappears into
a neighbor's bushes.
I walked past her without looking back
until a car pulled up to catch her
and I turned to wave good-bye,
her face hidden behind tinted windows.