She, dressed in black, gingerly moving each item of clothing, with care,
The road side gravel and dirt with concrete is her boudoir, straight hair,
dark and greasy, she moves to put each item away, how did they get there?

Maybe, her friend, taking watch at the street, looking north, with concern,
Glancing over her shoulder at her friend as she bends and each item returns,
to the black luggage and black bags,  where is her home, I can't quite discern?

Later, I  see her all alone drinking from a water bottle and she can't sit still,
bags are packed near the bus stop, several blocks  away and back up the hill,
No friend in sight, the bus did not take her, where to spend the night, she'll chill.

Somewhere.

Just as she always has had,
leather skin as tough as
it always was, but her
heart,
beating,
tenderly,
quickly,
waiting,
for night,
or worse
to fall...