‘Need to get to
Seattle.’
Black marker
thick on cardboard, dog-eared
moist, and
heavy.
The bundle of
blankets rustle,
a mound of what
refuses to die.
She tightens her
grasp on an orange tabby,
fur gritty and
tufted as the afghan-comfort-quilt that enclose them both.
The eyes of
passersby skip her over,
from one side to
the next,
their feet push
faster until they blur.
Her breath condenses,
rises to the gray above,
the city’s
blanket in the sky.
She wraps her
own warmth closer,
counts the
change thrown.
Not quite twenty
cents
for the not
quite twenty years of mistakes
that make up her
life.
By Alissa Tsaparikos
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