Here in Chicago I sit in the sun
of an Indian Summer
high on the Water Tower waiting,

chapped hands in a visor
over my eyes, hoping I see
you in that gown,

black satin and grace,
float like a feather
back to Chicago.

I don't care if you stop
by Confederate streams
on the way from Savannah

to pick phallic rocks
so long as you rise,
release all your hair,

take to the air
and float like a feather
on to Chicago

because this is the last time I'll sit
on the Water Tower waiting.
I'd rather go blind than see

you in that gown,
black satin and grace,
stop in the air

laugh like a loon
then float like a feather
back to Savannah.

Donal Mahoney

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/savannah-belle/