She shuffles purposely, eyes down, seeing only that path her veiny legs mark out. A broken old toy on a frayed string.
Flesh of her feet squeezed past the boundaries of her sneakers. Pitted, marshmallow feet that have traded high heels and sheer hose for sweat sox. She wears three pairs...all she has - trading them each day.
She swims against the tide, determined to make her way - to remember her destination. Her green Book of the Month bag is clutched to the fray of her coat...everything she has and is - is in that bag.
Her eyes play peek-a-boo with the sun. Images flit on her retina, frightening her to jump; some shadow-shape approaches... she flies apart, afraid and confused, helpless to regain her route from memory.
The place she goes is not the place she wants to be, but it is such a long trip home... if she could remember where home is.
The plight of women on the streets is sad to behold. Where is there a place for them>