“A photograph”
Shows you in a London
room; books, a painting,
your smile, a silky
tie, a suit. And more.
It looks so like you
and I see it every day
(here, on my desk)
which I don’t you. Last
Friday was grand.
We went out, we came
back, we went wild. You
slept. Me too. The pup
woke you and you dressed
and walked him. When
you left, I was sleeping.
When I woke there was
just time to make the
train to a country dinner
and talk about ecstasy.
Which I think comes in
two sorts: that which you
Know “Now I am ecstatic”
Like my strange scream
last Friday night. And
another kind, that you
know only in retrospect:
“Why, that joy I felt
and didn’t think about
when his feet were in
my lap, or when I looked
down and saw his slanty
eyes shut, that too was
ecstasy. Nor is there
necessarily a downer from
it.” Do I believe in
the perfectibility of
man? Strangely enough,
(I’ve known un-
happiness enough) I
do. I mean it.
I really do believe
future generations can
live without the in-
tervals of anxious
fear we know between our
bouts and strolls of
ecstasy. The struck ball
finds the pocket. You
smile some years back
in London, I have
known ecstasy and calm:
haven’t you too? Let’s
try to understand, my
handsome friend who
wears his nose awry.
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