1061. IN WHAT I REMEMBER OF ANITA O'DAY

IN WHAT I REMEMBER

OF ANITA O'DAY

All it is I remember of Anita O'Day

is some smiling ghoul of a face - one

smothered and colored as a postage

stamp would be. I think she sang,

though she never sang for me.

-

What is it we want from our wallets?

Talent and wealth in abeyance alone?

Nay; I think it's more a memory we want -

something tender enough to go home with

after the lights of the club have gone out,

after the party is over and the following

morning arrives. She is a genie in scanty

clothing, but one that I can't describe.

-

All I remember of Anita O'Day is a musical

phrase on a black and white screen; some

late night variety show, with a band - but

I'm not sure of that at all. My both hands,

much mellower now, seek something before

I die : something to smother, to fondle, to

touch or to grab. My personal and essential

wind blows through the gap both out and in.

Nothing substantial, mind you, but the

foggy air of thinking back.