La Belle Dame sans Merci

Depressed and alone, I’d left the others at a club in Times Square to explore. New Years’ morning found me watching the trains below High Line Park. A beautiful brunette with an unseasonable short skirt, and a baby, strolls. She chides the cyclists before brushing past, smashing the custard I’m eating against my lapel.
 
I throw down the sugar cone in protest. She merely shoves the baby at me.
 
Mesmerized by violet eyes that pierce the veil of her pillbox hat, I take it.
 
But not knowing babies, I struggle with the squirming thing as she uses the payphone, undoubtedly speaking to its father. She hangs up, and I set the baby on the bench and nudge it in her direction. I back away. She sits, smiling wickedly, crossing her legs to reveal— 
 
A steam train pulls into the West Side Yard. Old men stream out, singing a wartime march.