She sat everyday

in front of the Lenox Hotel

in lotus pose on a blanket.

I noticed her long, thin arms

bare during warmer weather,

her wrinkled but clean apparel.

Her brunette hair, long, stringy

framed a ruddy, oval

much younger than me

white woman’s face.

She did not speak, held no cup,

nor outstretched hand

her gaze cycled from

empty to sad to peaceful.

More than one passerby told me

she, a college grad, once worked for a

large Boston publishing house.

What happened? Had she strived

to be perfect for old men in suits

working longer hours

using yet hiding her intellect

to battle in-house mind games?

As she sat on that blanket

I knew she could be me.

One day, when I reached out my hand

to give her dollar bills

her eyes became mine, her face mine.

Then hers returned to her as

her irises brightened

and she said “Thank you.”