here,
she tells me, smoking
a cigarette
on the stoop. i'm a city girl
from
the bronx.
what am i doing here
in this
community
of old folks.
retired
and glum.
i don't know anyone,
or like
anyone.
i'm not supposed to be
here., she says again,
rubbing the tattoo
on her arm,
the ink blue and vague,
reading
born to run.
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