S

Cover of S. 

Her Dream Song


Stimulants of any kind
become her. She glows. Miss S
drinks coffee each morning, each evening.

Between, though, she lags,
calls it a case of the afternoons,
citing Sartre—

3 o’clock is too early
—& too late—to do anything
you want to do.

But she hates philosophy,
the tweeded literati
in all their intellect glitter.

—Mr Wonderful tells her
late at the all-night luncheonette
that she owes nothing

to those women—those aprons—
behind the counter & that she looks
good in red.

Miss S late through Harlem goes
home to the dark apartment
of her soul.

—Mr Wonderful doesn’t
—what?—
seem that wonderful.

Does she dream?
Of course. No wonder
she’s still a miss.