I sit across from a homeless woman. She might be my age. I have never seen her beg. I type these words into my phone while she writes something in a tattered notebook. I can’t shake the feeling that she is an artist or a poet. She never parts with her patterned scarf and the unusual shirt I first saw her in. So little separates us—just a few steps, from her to me. All it takes is walking through the crowd of people rushing past.
a wishing pond …
the ripples barely
reach across