Audrey of Mulberry

Aubrey H. in Italy Little, Caffe Roma’s bright wall-flowered festoon/
Sprayed so high upon Mulberry, a sweep of color on corner Broome/
Black & white were you always, on silver screens and in my mind,/
But slashed with paint now are you, Audrey, a creature of a different kind./
What shock, what twist, what evolution! – so brash the artist liberty taken/
Is this the elegant icon’s fate, and is her pristine legacy shaken?/
Her brow is blue, her eye glows red, her cheek burns orange like a blade/
Scaled and feathered, starred and blocked, a splashing veil of wet war paint./
A great graffiti queen is she, tiger-striped and street-enshrined/
Of classic Hepburn, Britain’s best, is there left a single sign?/
Ah – but see that gaze, behold that eye, that stares between the blazes firm/
A timeless visage, calm-composed, with blinkless beauty does it burn/
It’s the very girl, the starlet nymph, in cacophony of colorful unrest/
The same Tiffany who bewitched the world in Givenchy’s little black dress/
We question not the art at hand, nor the garish strokes of this wild brush/
For it’s Eaton’s right, his fresh mind’s eye to give dear Audrey a violent flush/
But is it over-stepped, the portrayal off-base, a sophistication twisted untrue?/
Methinketh not for Hepburn was more than black and white straight through/
Uncommon of look and guerrilla of style, a slim flouter of fixed Hollywood norms/
With short-cropped hair, girl pants, big shoes, a re-inventor of the female form/
Petite as a pea, a paradox of power – coy spunk that conquered in a flash/
Gary Cooper, so stalwart strong, you fell at a flick of her doe eyelash!/
She was mighty, yet good as gold – a humanitarian of the needy, far-flung globe/
The muddy reaches of squalored earth her ballerina slippers silken strode./
So paint her lively on Mulberry, on New York streets where walks the world/
Lest we forget the grace, power, and revolution that was a slim, British girl.