She rocks the hat
she could have grabbed
off Marianne Moore,
flustering West Portal Peet’s
one eye blind behind
the bent tin dimestore brooch
that secures her pinned-up brim.
A silverish pendant evokes
the golden age of art nouveau.
Neo-bohemian,
it bangs against her chest,
a fluted weight
suspended by the sort of cord
save-the-Tibetans pray by.
She leans on an acrylic cane
wrapped in bows of duct tape
and artful lace mylar,
twisted round a draping
chain of six-pack collars.
She unsnaps the rubber band
that binds a cough drop tin,
once painted yellow. Nickels,
dimes, a quarter here and there,
she pinches out a stack
of coins along the counter,
payment for her non-fat
double shot, no-foam.
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