At 45th and Park, beneath forty stories of steel and glass,
she straddles an overturned bucket:
feet planted on concrete, paper cup in hand.
As I hurry past she yanks up her skirt, bares her belly and,
both mouths exposed, shrieks, “CHANGE!”
I cross the street, stop, noticing for the first time
those tulips along the median
match the taxis—exactly.