I would not have noticed her if our car had not cleared of people at Lexington Avenue.
She wore a tattered stocking cap.
She removed it and stuffed it into her jacket.
She held a grimy white bag between her legs.
She reached into it and pulled out half of a doughnut.
That was when I noticed her shoes.
The uppers had split from the soles; her feet were wrapped in newspaper and rags.
I thought, Mother, you need shoes.
I looked up and watched her untangle a lock of matted grey hair.
She reached into her bag and found bobby pins.
She styled the loosened lock of hair into a bun.
I wondered is forty dollars would do.
I had forty dollars.
It was for vitamins; specifically: anti-oxidants.
My body is rusting faster than a wet Ford.
The crows feet around my eyes whispered: erase us, your…
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