by R.T. Castleberry —
Henna hair, a burning Lucky Strike,
rescue dog in her bag,
she walks bright into the bar,
gestures with smile and sunglasses,
and is gone to a streetside table.
Tumbling her purse in searching,
she’s taken a photo of defeated guidons,
It gestures toward Li Po for a title,
the narrative of its evolution.
She’ll issue it with broadsides,
manifestos for a caring revolution.
she slips out of her shoes,
hands conjuring illusions over Cabernet.
People like me, she smiles.
They follow at a discreet distance all day.
She takes her cell phone, films
cop cars as they cruise the lot.
Loosed from her lap,
the dog pulls at his leash.
Leaning over, she growls to him: