There are the ragged faces of those who are bitter about it, shoving through your eyes in search of weakness—
there are those who are so ravaged by it that they are nearly still to all emotion—
and there is the plaintive face of the girl, no older than twenty, wrapped in a thin white blanket.
Padding in dreamlike motion across, across at the metro station.
Her eyes were large and brown and dead, her thick lips sipped softly at air, her chestnut skin softly dusted in patches. It was forty degrees and the thin sheet was blown around ghostlike, the only barrier between girl
cold. She walked back and forth and the dingy buses came and went, came and went and swirled dust onto her and the grey pavement.
What has happened to the homes, to lose their people? What happens to the people without a home?
Ta-ta for now,
Isabella – 6/11/16