The ice cream cone perched precariously near the edge of the bench.
It didn’t have the look or feel of an abandoned thing.
Around the corner the old woman lay with her treasures, her home.
The cone was starting to drip over its waffled surface.
Her bottle, wrapped in brown paper was carefully perched in the nest of her arm.
Drool was dripping down her waffled face.
She had the look of something long ago abandoned.
Around the corner, someone had rescued the cone.
It was in the sun.
She lay in the shadowed alley.
Dreamless.