She be an old wanderer. Pillar-to-post type a person. Tall, she shuffles in cheap flip-flops and her shoulders hunch down from too much life.
A living skeleton.
Her hair be golden, but streaked heavy in silver. Body odor pervades all of her. She is wrapped perpetually in an old pilled blanket.
Hard to tell its color.
Times our paths cross I hold my breath and hand her a few dollars. She nods her gratitude and continues on her way to nowhere.
Or a place only she sees.
Almost constant is her wandering. Day. Night. Inbetween. I once spied her in a nook of bushes. She slept with her eyes open. Eyes as bright as crystal polished with newspaper.
Slate blue eyes.
Those sworn to protect and serve neither serve or protect her. They pass her with eyes straight ahead.
Compassion ain't a money making concern.
Some neighbors say she has fallen through the cracks. My thought is why do we need cracks for falling through?
Uncle Sam has become senile.
Once I saw her with blood on her face. I asked if I could help. She didn't understand and kept on shuffling on her private journey. Drops of blood on the walk following her.
No tears were in those eyes.
All souls in this nation have become lonely. We have lost compassion for the "We" inside of us. She is a living example of losing our own selves. She is better off in her own world.
We have lost far more than she.