The Day I Passed Garbo
Blasé New Yorkers are blasé goal walkers,
Harboring no other thoughts than achieving.
Seeing not, hearing not, smelling not, yet,
On a wet, windy day,
Making way upwards West 57th,
Shoes coming toward me,
Brown, flat, longish coat, aging face, hat or kerchief,
(Or am I imagining) rather dark glasses.
As New Yorkers do,
Fobbing off glance or gawk,
It was Garbo, of course.
Our paths never crossed.
Never turning my neck,
Never swerving the gait,
Lacking nerve to slow down,
I continued my goal-walking moment to class
Cool, detached, saying nothing to anyone.
I, Arlene Corwin had passed Great Garbo
That sixty some years ago,
Only to mention it now.