She sits with dirty hair and three weekdays on her shoulders, the morning sun barely reaching her face through the scarred plexi of the bus shelter. Parched claw draws a fresh fag from a pack of Avanti Lights. Butt to ruttled lips on powdered face, crack of chromium zippo, hard Wednesday pull, gray hymn to the alveoli, pursed exhale. Rough edges around her eyes, maybe a lingering shot of something between the cracks of her mouth. Dirty leather on shoulders and a bee sting mark on her unoccupied hand. Another pull, another squint, another rusty expunge. Gets up and walks toward the end of the platform, smoke cuddled into fingers. Takes another draw from that ruddy cherry. Looks to the east. Sun’s rising over the commerce and steel of the lower west end. I watch her walk for a bit. I watch the smoke curl around her hair as her cig hand falls to her side, causing a trace of ash to fall on her leg.