I meant to write this last week but another death and poem intervened...

For Fran Landesman

In spring, the sad young men will mourn her, throw
rose petals on her grave. She was the voice
of smoky bars at three a.m, her choice
minor perfections of the sort that grow

in corners of rich cultures. She'll survive
for one or two true songs. To celebrate
grey wistful things means you will never date
-sadness will stay in style. And she'll arrive

late at Parnassus, stand against a wall,
drink several cocktails, briefly chat with Pope.
They'll bitch at Sappho's dress sense. She will hope
Parker or Nash won't snub her. Dusk will fall

Cole Porter plays, and sings one of her songs.
She sighs, and knows that she's where she belongs.