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Hold on, Hattie She's mapped asphalt and old wood in the three block square. Sometimes she'll stare at something new, different-- not in the blueprint-- and be it human, will size up for bounty, be it object, will assess for acquisition. She takes tuition for life-- pockets coins, sometimes a bill, then spills forth advice for the day. Nine out of ten she'll say, "Hold on, tomorrow will be better." Then she gets her stubby fingers on a bottle and paces her slow way to some cardboard heaven. She's ghastly in a guilty manner (yours, not hers), never planning, waiting patiently, sometimes panting softly from the full cart--then she'll start her stare, mapping; something will catch her fancy and she'll smile, quickly, briefly, and you can see (if you're watching) what she once was, might have been. Then she's gone, like a brief yawn, to acquire and to give her simple, "Hold on..."
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