Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Retired ballerinas on winter afternoons

          walking their dogs

                      in Central Park West

    (or their cats on leashes—

       the cats themselves old highwire artists)

The ballerinas

                leap and pirouette

                           through Columbus Circle

         while winos on park benches

               (laid back like drunken Goudonovs)

            hear the taxis trumpet together

               like horsemen of the apocalypse

                               in the dusk of the gods

It is the final witching hour

                when swains are full of swan songs

    And all return through the dark dusk

                to their bright cells

                                  in glass highrises

      or sit down to oval cigarettes and cakes

                              in the Russian Tea Room

    or climb four flights to back rooms

                                 in Westside brownstones

               where faded playbill photos

                        fall peeling from their frames

                            like last year’s autumn leaves