The silhouette of an old woman rests against the window of her car.
A red light gives her time to muse.
She remembers translucent memories and holds her gaze steady.
She is long past the memories of porcelain words uttered in false wisdom,
broken utterances dropped like smashed plates on the dinning room floor.
But she remembers the drive home.
Seeing bronzed faces of men,
Men with sweat on their brows.
Men leaning against building walls seeking shade.
Men chattering in their native tongue.
They were men waiting for any work.
Then more faces, faces of young men sitting on street corners.
Corners where dreams melt like metal into city drains.
Corners where voices are not heard, lost in the din of traffic of those who have.