A Lowrider Loudly Brings Us

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.