She stirred her Manhattans
With her finger.
The ice would clink
On the side of the glass.
She kept every issue
Of the New York Times
And smoked like a chimney,
But with more delight.
She had been in prison.
She had written a book.
She smelled of Manhattans
And musty dogs.
Her house burned
With her inside it,
Blazing like tinder
On a windless night.
It was like the burning
Of the Library at Alexandria –
All those old papers
Going up in flames –
But the real loss, of course,
Was Edna,
Her stirring finger,
And her innocent dogs.
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