Something silly in Philly

i sent her a photograph
before the war
but that's in the past
where i can't go anymore
one day i got a big surprise
when my unbelieving eyes
saw her in an appliance store
near the boardwalk on the Atlantic shore.
her hair cut short,
she was pushing a nice intelligent man
into a plastic garbage can.
i didn't just avoid her, i ran.
i heard she married him
and like charcoal and ink on paper
spent two years working
his head into a fine black taper.
he went no farther than St. John's Wood
before he became a former lover,
like modern art toiling mostly undercover.
her next affair lasted only so long:
she played the viola and wrote a song
for a lively Russian officer
who was an admirer of Andy Warhol's
screen printing of Marilyn Monroe.
he perfected an alcoholic drink with some potato
and called it Vodka before he became hooked on drugs
and threw himself under a train in Spain.
her bereavement was essentially without pain.
she's now rumored to live in Philly
or in a suburb nearby
and for the life of me i have no idea why
i'd even think of her again.
it's silly.