Classic Poem

She could die laughing,
On Sunday noon, back of the pawn-shop, under the smokestack, with Mrs. Hoyne.
She could hide her face in rags and die laughing on the street.
She could snicker in the broom closet. In the dark of the movies. In bed.
Die, at the way some people talk.
The things they talk about and believe and do.
She and Mrs. Hoyne could sit together and laugh.
Minnie could nicker in the dark alone.
Jesus, what do they mean?
Girls trying to be in love.
People worried about other people. About the world. Do they own it?
People that don't believe a street is what it looks like. They think there's more.
There isn't any more, the coo-coos.
She could die laughing.
Free milk for babies, Mrs. Hoyne!
Crazy liars, all of them, and what next?
Minnie will be a millionaire.
Mrs. Hoyne will fly a balloon.
Give my regards to the Queen of France when you get there.
Ask her if she remembers me: “Say, Queen,
Have you got any old bloomers you don't want, for Minnie Spohr?”
She could die, grinning among the buckets at midnight,
Snicker, staring down the elevator shaft,
Minnie doesn't care. Get the money!
She could die laughing some time
Alone in the broom closet on the forty-third floor.