Waiting for Greta Garbo

Waiting for Greta Garbo

Another day and I'm still waiting,
all dressed up as if for an interview,
the room cool even at midday.

I'm not alone. Others live here,
all loafers, their only interest
like mine, a little gardening.

We could have gone underground
like radicals from the sixties
for all the world cares. Long ago

the world withdrew like a bride's train.
We wait for her return—for bouquets
and blizzards of flung rice—all of us

as enamored of her as paparazzi
awaiting Greta Garbo to emerge garrulous
from her New York apartment.