• She huddles between two buildings enclosed by the artificial darkness,
    forged or wearing stone and glass.
    The alley reeks of Roman garbage,
    and the scent clings to her skin.
    She stares at the walls blankly,
    as if stone against ice.
    Then she wraps herself tighter within her coarse, black knit sweater.
    She sits there, soaking her knees in muddy puddles.
    She brushes her head against the gray stone walls of the alley.
    As she watches the urchin kittens ravage for food,
    and how their ribs are showing.
    A memoir of her on a snowy Christmas Eve,
    shone once more.
    Poverty: Stops for no one.