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| Rosie by Adam Sass The old woman with a little boy's haircut Bends over between the tourists' tables And spanks her own bottom. Then she is dancing, Spinning, clapping, high-stepping To an accompaniment of nervous laughter That to her is just laughter. "Why aren't you dancing?" she cries. "Dance with me!" And some do, bemused men Who rise from their sidewalk tables And take a few turns in the street with her As their wives shake their heads, smiling, And Rosie clutches them close, Her hands wandering downwards. She is famous around town, Conjuring rueful smiles, Arched eyebrows, And a single question: "Was she drunk?" At your table she relates stories of Distant family, Canadian winters, a house abandoned. It's bullshit, all bullshit, And she's finally shaken it off And come to ground in this hot place. "They all think I'm crazy up there anyway," she says, And you cannot blame them, Though hers only seems The north-northwest variety. There is one story she cannot stop telling, A livid wound that will not close: How she was once bound, robbed, and left for dead In a quarry by men she thought were friends. It took her a day and a night to crawl out again. "They took everything, everything," she says. "They even took my glasses. They would have taken my false teeth If they'd known about them. Can you believe that?" You do not say so, but you can. At closing time she bids farewell with beery kisses Delivered with a wet mouth and a tight grip. Then she is off, weaving homeward, alone, Already half-real: A fading stroke of local color In a painting you'll sell your friends. Almost as an afterthought Someone calls out, "Good night, Rosie," And now it is on everyone's lips: "Good night, Rosie, Good night." |
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