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,

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


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