The Flow

The cold wind blows
and swirls past her cheek
while she stares down the road.
Hands in her pockets
and lips pursed,
she awaits her phantom carraige.
The gray wall above her
does not blink
and she does not acknowledge.
Her cheeks would be stained
if not for a lack of caring.
But in this city of blue lights,
where are her angels?