For Valerie Harper**

You come into my house with your panache and polyester wraps.
You move across my floor with a defiant flow: the tips of your head
scarves and cresting bell-bottom sails. You are stubborn
like a lithe Lou and smartly sarcastic like your short
and **** Ida, like the heartache mothers and daughters
hand back and forth. You are New York
like a downstairs Indian eatery. You push me into trouble
when you call from the dates of the Me decade.
You show me your anger and your sweet new resignations.
You cover me like a new coat from the striking windows
of Hempel's. You are the most beautiful of all of us
and you let the Teds and Murrays of this world slowly
come to understand this. Although purple and warm
and Mediterranean with those door beads, your attic
is not where you will hide at the end.
You will be out on the sidewalks of Minneapolis
sitting in a chair shaking hands,
sitting in a chair and singing with me.