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she got out of a jitney whose ancient driver ended each day
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in the red downtown on Howard Street,
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began to walk toward the Embarcadero.
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She knew she looked terrible,
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knuckles black with eyeliner and mascara from where she had rubbed,
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mouth tasting of old booze and coffee,
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through an open doorway.
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On the stair leading up into the disinfectant-smelling twilight of a
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rooming house, she saw an old man huddled,
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shaking with grief she couldn't hear.
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Both hands, smoke white, covered his face.
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On the back of the left hand she made out the post horn