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,
I walked.
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.
The Day I Passed Garbo 9.21.2015
Special People, Special Occasions; Small Stories Book;
Arlene Corwin
