When I survey city lights from above I sometimes think about Ramona. I think about her burnt hair and her stained teeth. I think about her sleeveless turtlenecks in January.
I wonder what it was like for her when the wall came down. When the money ran out, when the state had no choice, when they opened the asylum doors.
“You can sleep here,” they said, “But you’ll have to leave when the sun comes up.”
And there’s Ramona in a sunrise doorway. The world, at last, in technicolor. Blooming. Available. The smell of coffee and sausage and plumbs in the air.
And there’s Ramona, stomping and flapping in the street. Cooing at businessmen. Dancing to rock n roll loud enough to shake coal dust off windowsills. Loud enough to make her work for her sleep.