In The Flicker

I rise to her, Queen that she was, Marlene Dietrich, she of the legs,
nicotine muse whose angel light could blink a city,
as she did, Berlin to Hollywood.

Lola Lola of gaslight blues, who fired up my nocturnal Siberias;
her silver voice, a drone for sure, flew from out of the wings
of darkness.

In seance, I ask the Goddess what was her favorite movie.
Perhaps, Rancho Notorius. What my dismay, the one I thought,
she hardly can remember.

This proves the point: We girls, be we young or be we old,
swan neck dames or weathered babushkas,
nature has endowed us thespians.

The roles play,
we alone can rate them,
duds or killers.

The same with suitors who pursued us true,
might run a distant second to the scamps
who left us standing at the altar.