We used to talk of things like this
You and I, we two, at Cafe Loup
Where we met for years
Under the brief umbrella
Of dinners with too much white wine–
Champagne and caviar to our words
We spoke portly thoughts
Or so I thought
In those brave days when we were
Hardly old yet almost wise
Still struggling for guises to live
Not die by
Live one‘s life as a work of art
I brayed while stuffing pate
And you gravely nodded
Always respectful
Even though you must have seen
Clearly
Beneath your great thick glasses
A dour truth about these years
When I knew I knew you
But merely spoke for myself
As we all do in our flailing efforts
To connect
Today
No more fat ducks
As I scramble onto lines–
Mourners asserting themselves–
For a place in your life
Your history
But now we can only agree
You are not here to show it
Make sure they all will know
While we press each other for position–
Mired by our wallow of questions–
To cry I loved her
Or I was her lover
Or I loved her most of all
Almost forgetting the grief
Of those who really did
Too late
We are all here too late
Oddly uninvited
Yet graciously received
Tell me, Callie,
When you called to seek advice
About a suicidal friend
Were you calling for yourself?
Was the bell for thee?
If that, we heeded not
So I tell myself you are at peace,
Make do without your art