Not Everything’s About You, Frida!

Her benefactor bought her a dress.
“Go out and find yourself a rich husband.” he told her.
Instead, she went up to the top floor

of Hempshire House and jumped.
Only Frida was there to break her fall,
Dorothy being thankful, Frida crushed,

Dorothy being rankled, Frida blushed
like Father Mychal Judge, OFM
killed by a jumper at the Twin Towers.

The constant smashing of people on the sidewalk…
and almost all them landing on Frida.
Frida already weak from weakness,

and that ingrate Dorothy Hale just walks away,
ungrateful witch, dress none the worst for wear. MeAnWhILE,
Frida is moaning tiny, almost inaudible Mariachis.

Their guts visible, their hearts like hamburger patties,
their limp penises, admired by respectable ladies
until the Mexican ambulance spears Frida with its siren.