She roams at leisure the Manhattan June,
unchained for years from celebrity's stress:
no red carpets under Hollywood's moon,
no oily newshounds whose columns obsess
about her every move, no fans who snake
unwelcomed to her sphere.
Regret? It's moot.
She stops to sip coffee, to snack on cake,
then shops for new clothes.
"That blue skirt's a beaut!"
the salesgirl says. (She's never heard of Garbo.)
Her life's third act is fresh drama, a play
completely improvised: she the hobo
who at last loves to ride the freight of day
bejeweled with anonymity. Rhinestone
solitaire, she doesn't wear cologne.