Lua was a woman of few words
and fewer teeth. She awoke
to a scraping sound and hushed snickers:
two boys in ball caps
sliding the coins that collected
on her bench each night
into their pockets,
trying not to wake Loony Lua.
Her right eye peeked open and the
boys scrambled, sending nearby pigeons
into flight. She never chased the kids,
didn’t mind the quarters lost
so much as the nickname.

She braced her wind-thin frame against
her cart that always pulled left,
and plugged her headphones into
her prized AM/FM radio–
missing its batteries for years,
but that never stopped the music for her.

The street filled with umbrellas as Lua
made her way through town.
Paul McCartney’s voice drew her to a stop
outside a restaurant. She peeked inside:
“What station you got playin out on the patio?”
The hostess’ perma-smile wavered
as she pointed to a jeering Customers Only
next to the door. “C’mon miss, I just wanna
listen on my radio.” The woman sighed,
walked behind the bar to read the station.
Lua turned a **** with her thumb,
adjusting for static,
and returned through the drizzle
to her bench in Sheridan Park.

She tilted her head back
and inhaled deeply, thinking how that rush
of rainy salt air made her feel like a fish–
breathing in the ocean
without worry of drowning.
Lua turned the volume up,
and watched the clouds sway with the music,
humming to herself
*it’s gonna be a great day, ooh.