It’s not that I don’t
trust you, but when I read your poems,
I wonder if that vase of fresh cut roses
you describe
could be fake – could
be, that is, an imaginary vase,
rather than one you actually see on your
table.
Is there really
a gardenia-scented candle burning
in a darkening kitchen, as the sun sets over the
pines outside?
Or are you
sitting on the couch, curtains drawn, an old
lamp you have had forever burning instead?
I know that jar
of jam you describe—(as you spread some
on a biscuit)—
as home-made by your lover—(who tied
the lid with
raffia) – might have come from a local grocery
store, made in large vats in a
factory, sold everywhere.
You should see
outside my window, Billy – the
terraced
back yard – my
neighbor, Nick, with his long-handled
hose is kindly watering my newly-planted hydrenga
tree, and his Black-eyed-Susans, ready to pop.
If I wrote a
poem, I’d show you my soft new hammock,
so white and inviting beneath the walnut
tree, my glass-
topped umbrella table
holding a tray of blackberry tea.
My favorite yellow
finch would stop by in his little black vest.
I
wouldn’t make this up, Billy Collins—I wouldn’t
even know how. I’d take a photo on my cell
phone and send it to you for proof, but
I don’t know how to do that either.
You will have to
trust me.
