Buzzcut, short spiky brown hairs, disciplined.
A dark and big and poofed out parka her armor.
In her pack, a plain bible, cigarettes, Aquinas.
She has a worn and stickered scooter at the ready.
South of the river, November twilight, first stars.
Idolatry on that other side. Roar of the crowd, forgetting.
I imagine her to be Joan, keeping low to do holy work.
The cold insists that we hide. She gets on her scooter.
New castles may push us on somewhere else, take home.
Money buys too much, including respect and honor here.
The young woman, puts on a scratched helmet, speeds
into the falling night, sword invisible, mightier than men.