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