I was on my way to Saint Ives
when I passed Mickey Rooney
smooching all eight of his wives.
I asked Mickey where he got that grin.
He said it was from living outside sin.
When Mickey died at ninety-three
his wives greeted him on the inside.
They shadowed him wherever he went,
termagants focused on reparation.
I wished so much that I could help
poor Mickey, whose act worn thin,
faced his past in unfortunate absence
of the glee that Andy Hardy flashed
whenever he touched Judy Garland’s
magnificent skin. Those memories
now lost not only to him
but to history, the flimsy film
that would preserve them
having long ago lost its sheen.