Your Parents Were in Publishing
We nicknamed your dog Sparky
after she followed us into our apartment.
You’d been separating real mail from junk.
We don’t even live on your floor.  
You invited us over for dinner. We’re vegetarians.
Veneer, you say, is a modern material
and I sit on the one-arm bench by the balcony doors.
The apartment twinkles 
with your great view of the bridges.
We are both afraid of the off-white rug
and cup our hands under our glasses.
Yours is the only one
to have an architectural wall treatment
and it took damn near forever to find
a sofa to fit into this space.  
Red upholstery is obvious—
don’t you think? Strong splotches of color 
make the place truly modern.
Something about this life is happening in an order.  
I don’t say skiing is a yuppie sport.
You say we should see your country house—
it’s more comfortable, but the art isn’t there 
and your accent is a shock of caviar and mold.  
The dog spent the night with her walker.
I read in the New Yorker  that dog walkers
make good money.  Should you have 
a new piece commissioned, to match a silver frame?
You were sure to hang the Picasso low, 
so you could reach it in case of a fire.  
Everything is an extension of the self.  
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