she called herself “Sister” no one
knew her name
long ragged skirt tank top bare feet turquise
beads around her neck
some  said she dated Dylan in New York yet..here she was in
Key West living in a dilapidated abandoned
boat near the beach

she ran a “free store” where wandering
homeless hippies could leave the burdens of
stuff and take only what they needed.

every night as the perfect orange beach ball of sun descended into
the Gulf of Mexico and everyone on the pier cheered she
produced a tamborine from beneaath her skirt she
danced beating out the blues as she loped and swirled
in a slow mournful syncapation no music necessary
the way she swung her hair could take your breath away

I never spoke 
to her…
but wrote her
into a novel so 
many years later