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The wind turned everything over and over and
Down the street: the rusty beer cans, crumpled
Gum wrappers,
Burnished leaves.
I expected even you to turn up eventually;
Right there, a chameleon peeking out from between
Two curled leaves in Central Park.
Your letter was worn from folding and unfolding.
A line of brown after the part where you say,
"What I mean, Roberto, is"…. I do not understand.
You continued in Portuguese. You know I only read French.
And my name is Bernardo.
I am no fool, Woman -- I have read both Fear of Flying
And Madame Bovary, and I know how women think.
Refolding your note, I slip it into the dash
Of my silver MG, expertly adjust the mirror
To be rid of the glare of the setting sun,
And drive off.
One must learn to take pleasure in small things.
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