Eleanor Rigby

She sits between the tourists,at her bench

The subject of a thousand cameras lens

Renowned enough to go by just one name

Eleanor



Impassive,as a child climbs to her lap,

As grubby hand her metal roses touch ,

A myriad different accents sing her fame

Eleanor



If she could speak,what tales,

The whispered love ,the drunken threat,

Tears of joy ,despair,

She listens but no judgement makes

Eleanor



Discarded Subway wrapper at her breast,

A makeshift scarf if she should feel the need

Of warmth as day turns chill as evening looms,

Folks disperse,and pigeons claim her back until the morrow

Eleanor.