November in the City

Walking up the Metro escalator into the gray light of a D.C. morning, I see a woman with a turban, perched regally atop a folded box. Another woman, less regal, warms herself on a grate, hood over her head and, on her feet, impossibly high platform shoes.

I see the gray felt blankets from the homeless shelter abandoned on street corners. Chicken bones and cigarette butts blown up against the walls.

Around the trees are pansies the color of dark blood. In the distance, a car alarm sounds. And closer by, an ambulance.

Commuters walk quickly. Their shoes click briskly on the pavement. They don't want to linger here. 

"It's so much better than it used to be," say old-timers of the neighborhood.  And I believe them; really, I do.