Thursday, December 6, 2007


//hurt working on
Yesterday, we four,
who’ve lunched
regularly for years,
met in a chic French restaurant,
charming with tiny lamps,
a vast mahogany armoire.
Over the doorways
were dried flowers
dyed scarlet and French-ultramarine blue,
arranged into Seurat-like parasols,
frothing with shiny white ribbons.
Through the doorway to the kitchen
I glimpsed gleaming copper pots,
from which delicious fragrances flew.
In a half hour or so
the small, tres agreable French waiter
produced three bries en flaky croute,
a muddy green, fresh vegetable soup,
chewy bread and an immense salad.

We four old friends
talk each other through life’s hurts,
the latest, newly diagnosed breast cancer,
Stage 2.
Earrings and three wedding rings flashing,
one sips wine, the rest drink water.
We do not dwell
on old losses,
but coo gently,
soothingly, trying
to HELP her deal
with this new problem.
Hearts aching,
we offer dinners,
to the doctor.

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