How like me to think you’d keep that postcard—
that remembrance of a place we’d been together,
though, of course, the towers are missing
and I there missing you,
on a bench at a bus stop
on my way to The Met.
Perhaps I should have waited, sent a photo
of Seated Nude Holding a Flower,
that Miró painting you always loved,
when you loved me, then loved me not,
her ample flesh so yellow, pink and green,
that tiny daisy resting on her knee,
its petals still intact.
in reference to “Seated Nude Holding a Flower” by Joan Miró (1917)
on view at The Metropolitan Museum of Art