Woody Allen has written himself
into the company of the greats.
Burly Ern cups both his shoulders,
tenderly, in bearlike hands.
Stein slides rolled-up francs
into his waistband winking.
Through the backlots of Hollywood
Woody strolls to rapturous applause.
Paris melts into Egypt, and the locals
throw down their prosthetics to greet him.
He writes himself a wife, then a fleet
of pubescent girlfriends with tiny bones.
There is dancing amid the plywood
as Woody skips through Chinatown
all to the rhythm of my daughter /
my sister / my daughter and remember
anything (really anything)
could be written by Woody Allen.
unpublished poem, © Flora de Falbe 2019, used by permission of the author.