MADISON SQUARE 1900.

A GRANDMOTHER'S REVELATIONS TO HER GRAND DAUGHTER.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Madison Square was
Different back then,
Your grandmother said.

 

She spoke of long dark
Dresses and the heat
And hats and always

 

Having to be so
Aware of men’s stare.
She and her friend walked

 

Along by the horse
Drawn cabs, wondering
Where and how far you

 

Could go for the price
Of a big smile. You
Remember her

 

Sitting in her old
Rocking chair, her long
Grey hair, pinned up, a

 

Cigarette between
Lips gazing at you
Through the smoke, her eyes

 

Fading to a light
Blue, gazing at you,
Wondering if you

 

Was the kind of girl
She once was. Never
Told my parents where

 

We went, Grandmother
Confided; it’d
Give them grey hairs and

 

Haemorrhoids if they
Knew. She chuckled; coughed
And spat phlegm. That’s the

 

Difference, she said,
Between your mother
And me and me and

 

Them. Being just that
Little bit over
The edge, daring the

 

Reach beyond others.
You recall her last
Days, laid up in bed,

 

Staring out the large
Window, at the blue
Of sky, waiting for

 

Death to come for her,
The slow wait to die.