Beatty

She pinned a shamrock on us, as if books were our passport, the ones from the Orphanage, like a schooner puts on sail, puffed her cheeks an instant, dreamed for all our tales, made us Inquisitive, when winds froze our compass, furious declarations at Christmas, at the parties on Atlantic parade, Brooklyn holds a steamy closeness, jellies, anniversaries, men in shades, she died reading the Cantos, listening to Paul Simon, her shiny page folded Catechus, Homeward Bound quoting our names, we revered her just glory, our dollars and fancy trades, each bridge an open door.