I look out the window of my truck and see an old woman ambling about on the sidewalk. Her kinky hair is cut short and dyed blonde, contrasting with her dark skin. Her sunken lips tremble as she surveys the group of cars stopped at the light on her corner. A cop stares from inside his vehicle, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting her mumbling movement. The woman holds her hips and sighs. The whole city seems heavy on her, like some tiny gold-haired Atlas. She turns from the street towards the facade of a row home and looks up, extending her bony arms towards the sky. My view is blocked by the door of my truck — either from a window above of by the providence of heaven, a single cigarette falls down through the air. It slips her grasping fingers and she bends — rickety, searching — to pick it up.