the slow burn

no one seems to notice,
pay her any mind.

she used to steal from
the market down the street.
it was always something small-
a can of food, some bread, a couple of
diapers
from the package
farthest back on the
shelf.

she was quiet
and I never saw
her any other way.
she didn't have the drugged
out look of someone who had
given up on life just yet.
she tried to stay clean, kept her
clothes in order, and blended in
as best she could.

she never asked for money, but I
tried to give her something when I
saw her, a little loose change she
needed more than I.
she used to call me her angel and I
smiled when she said it. I'm no angel.

she looked for work when she wasn't
preoccupied with survival, but nothing
seemed to suit her. every job that was
offered asked for all the time she had
and the money wasn't enough of a
compensation for her to be able to
get by.

"you can't even rent a trashcan on a
hundred and eighty dollars a week,"
she said.

so she lived on the street and I gave her
money when I could. she called me an angel,
but I could have passed for a demon of
concern.

a circular cycle of need and want.
she was stuck in a flux of having time,
but needing so much more and there
was no one to give it to her. in a society
that walks away when someone is being
mugged, what chance does a poor girl
on the street have of making it, or even
getting by?

she's still there if you look. she steals only
when she has to and never asks for a
handout. she wears clothes she gets from
the charity bins behind the grocery stores
where you can leave the things you no longer
need for people who need much more than
they have.

I'm no angel, but at least I don't pretend she
isn't there.