In keeping with our commitment to totally unambiguous poetry, here's "
Dowager" by Ruth Brown.
They used to call her "Kitty" when
She frolicked in the nineties. Men
Still make her flutter helplessly;
Her kind of femininity
Is at its best behind a fan.
Although she's fat she never can
See any sense in dieting--
Her friends say, "Poor old lonely thing!
We must invite her here for dinner,"
And then forget, while she waits in her
Hotel apartment hopefully
With photographs for company.
I generally enjoy Brown's poetry in The New Yorker, but I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about her; she only contributed between 1928 and 1929, and I can't find any online references to her (since she is not the blues singer of the same name).
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