She's an addict. Too young for the warning signs, but they're there anyway. She's curled up in the smoking section; only takes up half a bench, and she's shaking even while she sleeps. When her eyes meet someone's they're big and dark like she's about to cry. And they're black, like her shorts and her shoes, and her jacket and her hair, and the guard across her wrist to hide all the marks.
She's dying and maybe now would be a good time to sit down and offer last words... But there's a black man in a white robe sitting across from her, and a blue-shirted white man, sucking on a cig. And you don't smoke anyway.
so you walk on by.
G'night, sister.
Haven't seen you in years.
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