a thing that’s called radar love,
the whole hog calling,
and here’s unhoused Ginger,
distracted wind-beaten beauty
separating from park bench
and Frigidaire carton,
flying Halloween colors,
tie-dye skirt, Orangesicle socks,
where will she sleep tonight,
where lay those tulle angel wings
slashed through her overcoat,
who pulses anarchist patchouli
and minty hair draughts
and cigarette spirits that scuff
our fragile air while we hope for
some pick-me-up before we pass.