Ivie Anderson (July 10, 1905 –
December 28, 1949)
The photographer showed up. In a Panama
suit. At St. Mary’s Convent. For Negro
girls. The students smiled so often.
Their lips began to break. Outside in the street.
Little Ivie pounded at the door. Let
me in! But she was too late.. There were 67
girls photographed. There should have
been 8.
On a stool. To one side of the band.
She sat. Tapping her foot. Not for her Prince.
But for the Duke. As he climbed up his
Calvary of pain. The broken hearted chorus
burst into joy. And the thorns gave
over to her words. So sweet and true. Ivie
became their voice.
A Day at the Races. Ivie got lost in
Groucho’s eyebrows. The washerwoman. Her
sad bewildered eyes. Attracted Harpo.
Blew his horn. Like a fire truck. Chased
Ivie around the set. Humour is like
smoke. Ivie laughed like. She was on fire.
The world is so strange. Cows could
fly. It was world war 2. The cows dive bombed
the herds of cats. That filled the
rolling prairie. With bags of milk. On the streetcars.
In New Orleans. The whores exercised
their right to assembly. Mao Tse-tung wrote.
About love. "A Single Spark Can
Start a Prairie Fire".
Ivie's songs. Made you feel you were in
love for the first time. The moon blushed.
And hid in the shade. But time passes.
Even though women hold up half the heavens.
Love fades. The voice of the Duke
ceased. Ivie Anderson was dead at 43.
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