Across her chest—
T E R R O R I S T in
military font, red on black
cotton T, above a modified
swastikas and dollar signs for stars.
“Nice,” I say, taking a better look.
“Oh, it has nothing to do with you,”
she answers, British accent,
dismissing me so she can flirt
with the girl clerk, “but with
the powers that be.” Her white cotton
Calvins hung higher on her hips
than her Levis.