Rosie and the Babe

 

 

The birds perch on Rosieís bar

Like they own the place

Each staring through the dusty

Window panes

At where Babe Ruth whored

The fat manís ghost

Still humping after 40 years

A beardless Santa Claus

Drunk on hotdogs and fame

 

Rosie,

Made bird-like with age,

Was 16 then,

Star-struck as she eyed the man

Who made use of the second floor

He tipping her for small favors

Each coin as previous as a complement

To a not-so-pretty girl

 

Seven decades later

She still sees him as Odysseus

Fresh from feeding on

Pigís feet and win

Carried god-like down the back start

For the short jaunt

To the arena across the Hudson.

 

She shows every one where he once sat

Thought time and rain

Have rotted out the timber

Where the bed posts rattle

And Rosie moan

Taking each inch of his lumber

For the price of a new gown

 

She claims he loved her better

Than any of her later husbands had

As she wipes away the whirlpools

Left by beer mugs on the bar

 

She,

Bird-like,

Patrolling the widows walk

As if she expects the great man

To sail back to her some day

Refusing to believe reports of his perishing

Knitting his life into her

For all eternity.

 


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