ARIA V: THE GIRL FROM THE EAST

Sick of my cubbyhole on Beacon Hill, of Boston and TV,

I rifle an antique chest-of-drawers for clothes,

Put on a long-curl wig, a whalebone skirt, a bonnet,

And prim, proper, pink-fringed sunshade up,

Fly away, in stages, toward the buffalo.

I arrive, made-up, a schoolmarm, a Quaker,

The naive Girl-from-the-East in the West.

My disguise is perfect. Even the U.S. Marshal

Does not suspect—nor the shuffling Hotel Clerk

Who gives me a room, with quilt and stove and bath

Overlooking The Saloon. Yes, I told them,

All my brothers died in the war. A private eye,

And still demure, I sign the register Louise.