1.

Luscious in a white brassiere
Michelle Morgan could not save my mother
From the dope, death. Nor could
Gérard Philippe, the drunken doctor,
Though he did very well by the town's sick
And dying. That's the way it went
In Martinique. Or Vera Cruz. There was
Certainly a lot of sweat and music.

This took place within a small world
Of dim black and furry white. The snow
Bashed the windows and then morning entered
As it will. She died while I was in between
Journal Square and old Manahatta. My sweet
Cousin's old-man lover, her grey honey pie,
Drove me back to Brooklyn in the bitter storm.
Earlier, we ate pork lo mein in a chop suey joint
And smoked lots of Lucky Strikes.

He was a bookmaker, unlike Monsieur Philippe,
But he, too, was quiet amid the platitude of death.
My fortune cookie said "Look sharp!" These people
Have been dead for many years. Look sharp?
At what?

 

2.

When Michelle Morgan sweated in black
And white and tight black skirt, death peered
Through the crazy snow. It was hot
In tropical Tobago. In humid Támpico. 
Dr. Gérard fell in love, and why not,
With this lost Parisienne. Death was working
In the dusty streets. In Jersey City, where palms
Are nervous neon, another woman died in the
February gloom. The snow was cryptically spoken of
By Doc the drunk to Miss Morgan. She, beautifully,
Blushed sweating, in a white brassiere. But spoke not.

 

3.

But there is no snow here save its memory,
Soiled lace, a white brassiere.
There was ice and frosted windows.
We do lots of things for money.

Soiled lace, a white brassiere,
Bleak Jersey City snapshots.
We do lots of things for money:
Board planes, shake hands with chumps.

Bleak Jersey City snapshots.
My mother then was quite alive.
Board planes. Shake hands with chumps,
The way one blunders into life!

My mother then was quite alive,
And suddenly, as flicks end, so did she.
The way one blunders into life
She blundered into death.

And suddenly, as flicks end, so did she.
Hard to know what movie stars might say:
"She blundered into death."
Their minds are dimly glowing scripts.

Hard to know what movie stars might say!
Their minds are dimly glowing scripts.
There was ice, and frosted windows,
But there is no snow here, save its memory.