July 22, 2014

What was she doing here in this hot weather? The day was hot and humid, yet going in and out of the subway would have been too expensive. Her chin hit the sidewalk. It happened almost without her realizing it. One minute she was up and the next down. Her whole body hurt but the chin got the worst of it. he hoped someone in the street full of people would offer to help her up. No one did. he struggled up again as best she could, picking up her purse. She shook her head and on she went. The day was too bright to think about heartlessness.


The Wind

March 16, 2018

The Wind

This is how I feel—this is exactly how I feel. The wind is hard; it is harsh and it is striking my face. The woman had these thoughts in her head as she thought about the new crisis in her life. She was threatened with homelessness, with sleeping on the street again after having been inside in a cramped apt. The apt. was the roof over her head, the only roof she had, the only roof available. She listened to the heavy duty traffic. This is just what I need, she said to herself as she smiled. All this mirrors my mood. This chaos, this nightmare that I have inside is the new problem. It is the so hard to solve problem. I hate it! I hate myself for not having the solution to it. A new gust of wind struck her face. Enough! This is enough! What to do now. I need to concentrate on that and that only. My life—what will happen to my life from now on and beyond. I have to live it until I die—but how and where?



The Bags

March 14, 2018

The Bags

There were one, two and three bags. She was behind them; her body shivered and her eyes stared at the sidewalk. Hundreds of people had gone by that morning. She had tried to forget that she was by the corner of a bustling street in a large city. She didn’t want to know. Once or twice her head went up. So many of them; she saw so many strangers all at once. They were busy (or pretended to be busy) with their own affairs. She put her hands on her knees. The veins stood out; the skin had begun to wrinkle a year or two ago. Hand lotion didn’t disguise the passing of the years for very long. She put her arms around her chest. The legs obeyed her thoughts. Getting up was a challenge. She made it across the street—safety was hers at last.



Raw Storm Scene

March 7, 2018

Raw Storm Scene

White, white and more even white falls on the sidewalk, the streets, everywhere. People and their umbrellas caught by the wind stumble, then keep on walking. They skip the black ice areas if they can; most walk as fast as possible. At one end of a street, a man sits on a piece of cardboard. A large black umbrella covers his head. At the other end, someone is sitting on three United Post office crates, the kind that postal workers use. The person looks up at the sky; the shoulders first, then the head shake. She looks towards the man. That we should be out on such a day! We would rather be nice and cozy somewhere, not here in the wild of the storm. People hand her single dollar bills. She looks at their hands. Thank you. Thank you very much. The snow has turned her black pants white. Her fingers shake it off.





The Sidewalk Stiff

March 6, 2018

Sidewalk Stiff

She sits with an empty white coffee cup next to her. She looks up at the passers -by and she waits. She waits 1, 2, 3, sometimes 4 or more hours. The street is noisy and crowded. She keeps waiting, sometimes looking up, sometimes making believe she is reading the free morning paper. None of this matter she would say if she could; what she is doing is an eccentric person’s hobby. She doesn’t need the money that she is not getting. There are no results; she came to the site early for nothing. She attempts to get up from her milk crate. Her hand holds on to the car by the curb. Her legs feel stiff. One movement forward and another and then another movement to the corner—she does this slowly. The light changes. It is just in time; now she can get herself feel normal. She is who she once was.




Ham and Pickles

March 5, 2018

Ham and Pickles

The sandwich—it looked very good inside the clear plastic container. Ham and cheese panini, a fancy term for a plain old ham and cheese sandwich. Someone had left it by a phone booth. The street was busy, with hundreds of people going by. No one would notice, no one would care if she took it. It was lunchtime and her stomach growled. She tried to do something about it, but that was often hard. She looked behind her; no one was looking. Her hand put the container in her large bag.

The Amateur Hour

March 5, 2018

Amateur Hour

When she found out about it, she was shocked. Is this what I can expect after all these years of struggle? Is this what she expect people to call her—not a real writer, but an amateur, an aging amateur?  They said that the book had typos and other mistakes. She slaved over the computer so that when she delivered the manuscript to the publisher, there would not be any typos or small fonts. What is going on? The book was her life; it made up a large part of her adult life and now the problem. It had to fixed and fixed ASAP. Her talent and dedication demanded that she stick up for what she cared about the most—putting down words on paper and making the words mean something.

The Bag of Bread

March 3, 2018

The Bread

It was there—the big slices of white bread were inside a clear plastic bag. The person walked by the busy street, looked down at the open black garbage bag and saw the bread. There were 2 more bags of white bread; these were larger. The person didn’t need the larger bags; the small bag would do. She walked on 2 more blocks. It was too much; the temptation got hold of her. After all, it’s wrapped and it’s clean. If I don’t take it, somebody else will. She walked back. The black garbage bag still had the bread. Tourists went passed her. She bent down and got the bread. Done! Now it’s mine and I can make toast with it.


February 28, 2018


However imperfect the woman is, she is there for you. You are not alone. But you are too set in your ways to realize it. You are too much you to acknowledge her help. She cares. Deep down or not so deep down, you know that. You’ve known that all along. In your past, maybe people have done things for you to get something. She doesn’t get anything besides sadness when she sees how unwell you are. She accepts you as you are, grumpiness and all. You want her to change. She cares for you. Your illness almost forbids you to see anything except how it is affecting your life.

Fitting In

February 16, 2018


You don’t fit in. You are no one; everybody thinks that you are nobody, nobody at all. The way you look is not the look they want. They want a different look, something that will be like them. You walk a certain way; you carry yourself a certain way. Your clothes are shabby; they dress with style. None of it is their way and never will be. You can’t pretend to be another type of person. You can’t back down. That will not work. You are out. You are definitely out. The photograph is taken without you.



In or out

February 12, 2018


To fit in—there is, there always has been, a need to belong somewhere, anywhere. An outsider, she is an outsider always with her nose stuck on the glass window. She looks at all the people who have made it, all the people who are in. They are part of a group and they have the badge to prove it. They have done something, whatever that something was, to make their selves known, to make themselves seen. How can she, this now older person, be herself when her real self is not accepted? She’s just not what is accepted; she’s not what the people want. Her eyes close; a minute or two of rest, of forgetting so she won’t have to think. She is no stranger to the harsh realities of life. Harsh realities have been her companions for a long time—more time than she cares to remember.