She has gray hair and sleeps in the doorway. She fits her back into it, concave, her face out for safety.
Sitting on her bedding at 8:30 in the morning, she packs her small troupe of possessions for the day.
Where does she go until the evening? Why does she choose this street busy with restaurants?
The second morning I pass by
she talks to a friend.
Today the storefront windows lined with brown paper. A new business will move in.