Passage

Poison

I find him sweeping leaves
in the low winter sun,
and leaving sweeping to throw his arm
in front of his eyes:

   “Ever since my cataract operation, you know.”
   “It blinds me too.”

He easily greets my abrupt interruption
to stand in the shade and,
in a moment or two,
tell me of years.

“Fifty years I never went to church...”
the parents' divorce in Spain...
the Catholic boarding schools...
the selfishness of his mother:

   “When she died I spoke to my sister on the phone.
   ‘Do you care?’ I asked her,
   ‘No, do you?’ she replied.”

The years in New York:
“Once,
I promoted Poison—
you know, the scent.”
The displays were beyond the fabulous,
the reception was unanimous,
the scent was obnoxious,
like so many others
with less obvious names.

   “I hate to see these leaves lying around.”
   “Some would think they are beautiful.”
   “Yes, that's true,” he sweeps.