I see her again
on my way to work.
Always I see her
at the same corner,
her assigned spot on the planet.
Today I realize
she has become a landmark.
The walk takes fifteen minutes
past the library,
ten past the woman
who’s as transparent as my face
in the store window behind her.
She looks up
and we take inventory.
Feet apart in run-over running shoes,
holding her bag as if it held her life.
Her hair uneven, her mouth a straight line.
She isn’t sure what she’s been searching for.
Maybe she was pretty once.
the color of nothing.