"[...] beneath the glitter and glitz, the diamonds and black velvet, deep below, the Metropolis' heart beats; down in the sewers and gutters, where its dearest families live."
-- Paul Theroux; Memories of New York City--
She had come to hate it -- Hope.
The word. The sound. The concept. The unabashed cruelty of it all.
That's all anyone ever gave her -- Hope. Wrapped in short change.
A few were bills. But a buck is a buck -- paper or metal.
A dollar's worth of Hope -- that's all she ever could get for one.
And there were many -- a dollar at a time. A dollar a day.
Always. A dollar's worth of Hope.
Hope was a lie. Hope was a beautiful fairytale.
Hope was a ploy; an excuse.
Hope was diversion. Hope was perpetuation.
Hope was no solution; nor was a direction.
Hope. Was a compass without a magnet.
Hope was her; sunken eyes, ruffled hair.
She sat under that park bench; still savoring yesterday's meal.
As she thirsts for tomorrow's rain.