An old woman pushes a basket full of laundry along the street, the rain pelting
at her hood, the wheel marks showing briefly where she's been, gone within
moments like footprints in sand, she huffs and puffs, steam rising out of her
with each struggled breath, needing to get clean before she gets dirty again,
to reach that place still many blocks away, getting wet in the already if not
heavy rains, a sock or end of towel poking out the top of the plastic bags
homeless people most often use -- as if she is not too far from that fate, as
if scared if she does not get these things clean, she won't be clean herself,
pushing ahead through the rain, her wrinkled fingers gripping the handles of
the basket, all four wheels slipping and sliding and making her feet slide, too.
looking up, cringing at how far she still has to go, knowing it will always be
too far
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