There is an ancient woman In the market near my home Who walks the timeless amble Of a battered soul alone. Her pasted orange tresses A marmalade cascade Fall so stiffly down to where Her hand is always laid Clutching her treasure bag She goes her way careless Ignoring chiding glances At her faded evening dress.
Her story hides in rumors Whispered by those who work In the shops and restaurants Here near McArthur Park. They say she was a movie queen Or an extra in the silent days And an accident at the studio Made her bald unto this day. She refused to remove the wig She ran out crying, in costume And now she is still wearing it Hoping he will find her soon.
The woman at the pharmacy Said her hair caught on fire At a movie in the twenties Her boss calls her a liar; Says the leading man did it In a fit of rage and jealousy When she wouldn't marry him He set fire to the scenery. Others heard that she was fired, But she wouldn't leave the set So deep inside her mind She really hasn't left it yet.
Some have tried to talk to her But she never speaks that much Except inquiring prices and colors Of the goods she chances to touch. To direct questions and advances She turns sadly away and leaves. You can tell she is sensitive You can tell by her face she grieves. It is easy to see she is living In some world that is not ours Her world seems a place of gloom Of thunderstorms and showers.
She caresses with her fingertips Along the banisters she passes And she seldom lets her gaze linger Behind her smoked sunglasses. Her satin dress has faded, Like the color of her hair. She still lingers in each moment When she walks down the stair. She never seems to notice those Who stop and goggle at her And they are many, these gawkers But they just donβt' seem to matter.
She seems to have accepted What her life has now become. She has been coming to the park For decades more than some. This may be a playground For popeyed urban gnomes. But this is where she shops This decaying place her home. This park is very much like her Many ages past its prime. The vestiges of past glory Have not been erased by time.