Classic Poem

It was so nice to hear your voice again
last night, as if all had never gone wrong.
While you were holding forth on Rukeyser,
I sipped my glass of Cotes du Rhone, and smiled.
Your virtuosity astonished me
when I first heard you read your poetry.

It was so nice to hear your voice again
as if forgiveness weren"t impossible.
While you were holding forth on Rukeyser,
I poured the Cotes du Rhone you gave me down
the drain. Your genius astonished me
when I first read your poetry in bed.

It was so nice to read your poetry
again, as if poetry could heal wounds.
While you were holding forth on Dickinson,
I thought of Rukeyser, and what you"d said
when we were drinking undistinguished wine
in Spain. Starched napkins spoke formality.

It was so nice to be in love with you
that way, as if poetry were a kind
of healing love. While you were holding forth,
I drank the table wine and laughed. I thought
you were like Rukeyser, or Dickinson —
brilliant, despite our drunken state, and fierce.

It was so nice to be with you, old friend.
Depression, migraines, breast cancer — and loss.
While you were holding forth on god-knows-what,
I knew I couldn"t comfort you. Instead,
I wrote poetry that wasn"t so good,
in forms that couldn"t compensate for truth.

It was so nice to be with you in France,
before it all went so terribly wrong.
I was embarrassed when, too weak in French,
I asked in Spanish for the wine list. You
seemed vaguely annoyed, yet held forth on AIDS.
You ordered marrow bones and buttered toast.

It was so nice to be with you again,
if only briefly, and only on the page.
I still think of you when the waiter brings
the bottle of red wine, uncorks it, pours,
and looks at me for my approval. Yes,
I want to say, bring us another glass.