Queenie

She pinned a shamrock on us, as if literature was our freedom, the ones from the Terminus, like a school bound mistress, puffed out her cheeks, she listened to our issues, on Atlantic avenue's blues, where the winds freeze you, she made us feel useful, Brooklyn’s steamy closeness, her retirement at St Stephen's, jellies, anniversaries, toasts, she died at the Angelus, listening to the Swingle singers, joy her last impetus, we stood around coming close, Fulton street market, oh Jesus, our dollars and fancy clothes, the bridge a nodding reason.