A Bowl of Fruit

When I think of that room I see the de Kooning at the end of the hall Sometimes rain on the long windows Or the tinkering of drops on the skylight But not Yvon Splashing Scotch into a cocktail glass Otherwise fastidious— In retrospect I should have asked her more About the famous jazz guitarist She had been engaged to But that much was true— Even after she bought me a pocket knife Sheathed in velvet Every young man needs a knife She informed her group But in the restaurant her friends Eyed me like a turnip. One that talked— While she was away at her office, I tried to read Her unfinished essay On the vagaries of diplomacy Reclining On a rug of embroidered storks The two small Rodins Seemed misplaced A grand piano She didn’t play (though I did, affecting a controlled passion while gazing over rooftops at carefully maintained gardens)— I don’t remember her smell I don’t recall her fingers The last I heard she was living in Barcelona She never did learn to cook Now her letters are worth money