Kathleen

They called her loud; it was how she dressed,

In silver catsuits, neon things, and shirts like handkerchiefs.

And it was how her voice rang: she would call

For her friends a stocked block off, and taxis never failed her.

Rambling messages broke into bad song

Till you answered, and knocking down doors was her delight.

She was the New Yorkiest kind of New Yorker, who had been

Cramped dreaming in a smaller city, saving with tenderness

For the Greyhound she barreled in on at about nineteen, carelessly

Thriving on stresses and messes.

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Retail therapy didn’t cure, and perhaps aggravated.

How long and dragging it took! She tried

To make sickness a Bonjovi concert, and half succeeded.

Now some visit her with alacrity –

A sorry few – and invariably find that others

Now do her noise for her, rolling trays pushed

Clack-clack-clack across the tiles down those conventional white

Halls by nurses who hail another with unabashed accents;

She herself though amongst the bustle and clamor sits large-eyed,

About as loud as a cloud.