At Area and at Limelight, two silly
Dance clubs of the bygone era,
She threw up, and at Café des Artistes,
The fine restaurant on 67th Street,
Sometimes she threw up there as well.
Once on the subway, a midnight train
I now recall, she threw up but we
Had the whole car to ourselves,
Fortunately. It was quite late and
She had mostly the dry heaves.
How different was that time on the
Ferry when she so copiously threw up
That onlookers’ stunned silence
Gave way to spontaneous applause
Which, as she took a bow, intensified.
Nothing affirmed her beauty like
Her vomiting – the sunlight yellows
And the deep forest greens of it,
Calling to mind at once the colors
Of Lombardi’s Green Bay teams
And Rimbaud’s astonishing line,
'Mon triste cœur bave à la poupe.'