Tiptoe over memories on the stair
The ghost, as such we have them, lying there
And climb as she did every day
Above the sordid past, the corpses flayed,
To find one scrap of evidence, a clue,
To understand the mischief that men do,
Or reconcile the fragile flesh we are
With uniforms and titles we desire,
To clutch the broken railing of intent,
Divorced from deeds as words from what is meant,
Lurching to and fro like vino guzzler,
(Samantha's warlock dad played the Puzzler)
And wonder what is real and what is mask,
The name of some such villain or his task
These figments of a language game that curbs
An incorporeal subject to some verb.

When asked about her girlhood, Olga smiled,
"Not different much from any other child's,
My father Georgi left when I was one,
Mama and me, we lived in Kensington.
Mama sealed bottles at the brewery,
I was independent, you know, latchkey,
I went to school, I had my friends, Papa
Came back one day--some trouble with the law.
He gave Mama some money and a coat,
Then he moved in; they didn't ask my vote.
'I came to see my girl.' Well, now you've seen!
I left, thank God, soon as I turned eighteen.
I never knew why mother took him in,
The place was so much better on our own."

A pretty girl who likes clothes and who gets
Her fair share of entrées and compliments
Often thinks fashion design her forté
A side effect of culture and her way
Of making up cute outfits on the bed
And letting social leverage reach her head,
But, really, how's a Philly girl to know
The skills which into couture path must go,
Where find the contacts most of all or cash
To launch a career selling trim and sash?
Olga was bright enough with model looks
But not the height or poise the runway took,
And needing rent, expenses and her food
In clubs she started dancing, semi-nude.

She learned a pitch that Philly calls "bust-out,"
Ruse of demure ladies with charms thrust out:
The pelvis rolls, arms pose, and eyes invite
A guy to think this is his lucky night,
Some drunken schlub who never wonders why
The goddess by his side chose him to sigh,
"If only we could get away alone,
My lips pressed to your ear, my heart would moan,
The secrets management won't let me tell:
We're not allowed to date the clientele,
But I can barely organize the ones
Slipped 'tween my breasts, against my hips and buns,
So hot you make me, that I'd take a chance,
If just you'd pay to see my private dance."