Tuesday, December 27, 2011


This is my tribute to Rosie, the flower girl, who sat every night on the corner of 55th and 3rd Ave., NYC, in front of famous P. J. Clarke's.


On the corner of 55th and Third
Where the fierce wind hollers
There's an old Babushka bag lady
Surrounded by buckets of flowers
Feeble, fragile and hunched over
Sitting there 'til the morning hours.

Appearing small in the gritty, tinsel city
She never begs or cries for pity
Some say she's been there since '41
No one knows where she's really from.

Was she ever spring time young?
Pretty with long, silky hair?
A lover to share her sweet song?
Anyone know? Anyone care?

All night long, people come and go
They come fast, they come slow
But it's the lovers she likes most
A toothless smile, a soft hello
She offers a red rose - for free
To lovers, like you and me. 

When winter snow blows bitter and
Batters cruel through tattered clothes
The bar takes her in to warm the old soul 
A cup of soup, a soft bread roll
Thawing fingers and frozen toes.

As years pass and seasons unfold
Alone in the wave of humanity
You would never know from Rosie's grin
The closing years are looking grim.

(c) 2011  Lora Mitchell