She sat as anyone might have sat
on the empty bench outside the city wall,
smoking, to ease the tension of her hands.
She might have passed for any one of us
but, like the respectable city, catering
for visitors, we did not look at her;
passed, gossiping, inside. I saw her later
casually cadge a light from a stranger
with more than necessary looks and words.

She
is catering for passing trade;
their acknowledgement has broken her face
into a lividly-shaded mask, grotesque,
unbalanced by bruises.

She looks with scorn at the naivety
she's not long lost herself; she sits
outside the city wall to ply her trade.
Between her fingers is a burning stub
and in her eyes the wariness of the fox.