It’s Chinatown

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unpublished poem, © Flora de Falbe 2019, used by permission of the author.

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