Maggie

Her name was Maggie.

In a two room suite

offered visitors a trip,

around the world.

For an hour or a day.

She took them places

some took to their graves,

Memories etched of their stay.

In a town named Deadwood

where men were shot,

for simple things

when tempers ran hot.

Till one gent stood above others;

She fancied more than she should.

Their all day affairs

left her out of commission.

When in her plight,

she failed to use her powers

of womanly delight,

to make this gent her man.

Sinking into despair,

her secret within her frame.

Till alas she could not hide,

what was growing inside.

She took to drink,

and binged three days they say.

Finally in her suite,

she grabbed the red velvet sash,

leaned backward above the street.

From her third floor window

she let go of hope, and him,

let whatever will be of this whim,

to end her life, and what she carried.

Finally free of this life,

of silken dress and French perfume,

bearded men not caring.

To this day her spiritual being is heard,

they say mostly in the wee hours.

Perhaps she haunts the ones with malice,

in their hearts, for poor souls of like her.