Having a Coke With You

Having a coke with you,
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona.
Partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian.
Partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yogurt.
Partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches.
Partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary.
It is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still.
As solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it.
In the warm New York 4 o’clock light, we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles.
And the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint.
You suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them.

I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick.
Which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism.
Just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me.
And what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse.

It seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience.
Which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it.

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