At dawn she 
    opens her door, separates
        herself to the porch,

motorcycle parts, the cold
     mist in her lungs, nothing
         on from the waist down

and her feet on frost, so
    she won’t stay, but before
        she turns to go  in, she hears

her name on the serrated tongues of geese.
                        

Across the street from her, a cobwebbed window.
Tilted against it, statuary--faded, except gilt
edges of halos, chipped linings 
of robes. Saint Francis? Joseph? Collapsing 
into him, the Virgin Mary. Stockpiled 
behind them, others. This saint warehouse
isn't used much—she's never seen one 
jostled, dusted, straightened, or
taken out, since she's lived here. For a while, 
the ghostly saints told her to leave.
Now they think she should stay.
Once, when she was drunk
and dancing to Jay McShann, she 
spun around at the Charlie Parker solo
on "Sepian Bounce," and mooned them. Mostly, though,
it's one beer at sunset, and a neighborly toast.