She stands beneath the trees on rue de Belleville. She always has a cigarette, but never asks for one. She asks for money. She asks: Vous auriez pas une pièce? She disappears. She reappears. She looks the same: wet, whipped by the wind, beaten. She asks for money. She disappears again and I wonder if this time she is dead. When she is there, she is there at seven o'clock. She wears an anorak but looks as cold as a sock in the snow. She doesn't look hungry. She doesn't look crazy. She looks at you. She disappears then reappears days, weeks later. She isn't dead. She asks for money. She asks: Vous auriez pas une pièce? She knows the answer. She smokes her cigarette. She doesn't smoke her cigarette. She holds herself. She doesn't hold herself. She has long grey hair and red scoured cheeks. She is almost invisible. She is a morning cup of coffee. She is the rhythm of days. She disappears, reappears again. She is a broken heart. She is the saying: Look what the cat dragged in. She isn't dead. When she is there, she is there before the sun.