As we go down life’s sometimes crooked path

leaning into the wind and the spitting rain

pulling our coats tight, wishing for weather’s remission

wondering what it all means, where we’re going

how did I get here? how do I work this?

one thing becomes exceedingly clear.

When it comes time to help the homeless

paint a room, organize anything, teach a child,

stop a war, correct an injustice,

or talk about crooked politicians

I want to do all of these things with

the women sporting a purple mohawk

whose personalities burn like napalm

whose energy is more nuclear than solar

for they are the believers and the doubters

the social equity agnostics

who will pray if they must

the doers and the shut-up-and-dancers.

It would do our country good

to have a woman with a purple mohawk,

ears studded like rivets in the stern of a warship

red high-top Converse running the show

and a rainbow Black Lives Matter t-shirt

riding herd and taking names in the rose garden 

using her phone and a situationally dependent flow

of strong coffee and single malt whiskey

because I’ve seen firsthand the mountains moved

by these heroines, often with child on hip

and it makes me want to get out of the way.