Love’s Anarchist

I know a lady,
she writes her own rules;
Love’s anarchist…
spraying a graffiti of smiles on misery’s stoic face.
She speaks of God in elevators;
She says, "Good Morning," in Chicago’s bitter cold;
She gives a dollar to every street corner’s panhandler;
She picks up hitchhikers;
She asks waitresses of their friendship with their creator.
I think she knows the rules
that so bind us;
She just doesn’t care.
Or maybe,
she does.