The street performer insists
we call her Hector,
which makes us all laugh.
She is loud,
doesn’t need a microphone
even though the crowd is deep.
She wears purple tights
a polka-dot dress
and her hair in pigtails,
which would make her seem like a child
except that she has enormous breasts
and flicks profanities
around the crowd
like spitballs.
I’ve seen her here before
and I am as spellbound as always
by the rumble of her courage,
her roaring determination
to make us like her.
But I wonder
if she realizes
that what happens
is bigger than that.
As we laugh
at her grand finale,
Hector laughs too
and we are a hundred strangers
splitting with joy
sharing a cold day,
all secretly wanting
to hug.