Queenie

She made us flower. as if literature our passport, the ones off the lower, like a schooner waits for wind, she let us pause for thought, she knew all our sins, cargo boats making for home, their freight caught, she jolted all our bones, knew where we lived, the Bridge her open shore, how we were as kids, at her party on the Bowery, New York's steamy closeness, we were all her towers, she died as we knew her, listening to Artie Shaw, a thunderstorm then showers, the city our open door. even struggle sedated the trouble you create, a drunk without jokes, crying on the pavement, lost to your ghosts, in a red lipstick fragrance, your bottle is a freighter, including the kitchen sink