She sits on the stoop of a wooden shack, paint flaking off the walls, her hand on a rusty shopping cart stacked high with possessions. "Don't you take my picture!"
"I won't," I say, feeling guilty because she caught me with my camera pointed in her direction. "Why don't you want your picture taken?"
"I know what you people do with them."
"You have a beautiful face. That's why I wanted to." It's like porcelain with fine lines etched around eyes and mouth.
She adjusts her floppy hat and smiles. "I used to be a singer. I still know a lot of songs." She begins to hum.
crumpled paper bag
Published in Frogpond