text=The Day Lady Died//It is 12:20 in New York a Friday/three days after Bastille day, yes/it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine/because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton/at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner/and I don't know the people who will feed me//I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun/and have a hamburger and a malted and buy/an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets/in Ghana are doing these days/                              I go on to the bank/and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)/doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life/and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine/for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do/think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or/Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres/of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine/after practically going to sleep with quandariness//and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE/Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and/then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue/and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and/casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton/of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it//and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of/leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT/while she whispered a song along the keyboard/to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing/