On floated a buzzed Garbo,
a browned-out Garland.
Elvises of every era
groped for their towels.
Here walked a plausible Oprah.
In came an ayatollah. And there,
lanky in her tankini—a Cher.
If the whole idea is to go
out of the world as late
and as happy as possible,
you could do worse
than die on a megaliner.
You would have left knowing
how a crowd surrenders
when a man stands before
them as Frank Sinatra.
From Wish You Were Her, n+1.
Verbatim Poetry 