Nameless

She sits cross-legged

outside the nameless park each afternoon

scratching the crust of dirt on her bare thighs.

She hums and sighs,

avoids the eyes

of all the passersby

who study their phones

or the crossing signal

or check the sky,

deaf to her mewling

kittenish cries and mumbling

and walk on by.

She wears a blanket brown as sable,

brown as her Congo skin

draped close around her shoulders.

She has leaves in her hair

and secret smiles, some thought

or memory that seems to please her.

She never holds out a palm or cup

but I decided to give her a dollar

and she looked up and gave me

a smile, said in the sweetest

child voice, "happy".

The next day I did the same

and again she said, "happy".

Somedays she is elsewhere,

but now I make sure to have

some dollars in my pocket

for when she is, sitting quietly,

talking softly to her self,

touching the fallen leaves stuck in her hair,

lost in memory or revery as she suns there,

outside the nameless park. and all she ever says is,

"happy"