By Sandy Wilson
The girl looked familiar.
On her knees, fingers feeling the sidewalk surface, glossy nails searching between the slabs, she looked helpless, as though blind.
“Can I help you?” Reluctantly, late for the meeting on the 95th floor.
She ignored me.
“Look, I’d like to help, but I’m late.”
“No, wait, please, you mustn’t go. Help me look.”
“What are you trying to find?” Checking my watch.
A shadow flitted over us, her answer lost in an explosion of sound above.
Distracted, I looked up, “What did you say?”
“Myself.” She replied. “My life.”
When l looked down she had gone …