Lyric for John Ashbery

There they sat, wine and smoking in lamplight,

Talking of themselves and things other people own

While I hung from the eaves, my ears turned

To their voices as if I knew the reason

One carnation fails and the other raises its petals

Like hands in a church with no ceiling—

They built the scenery, moving room

To room without losing the thread; fearless

Talk, and not a single break until minutes ago

When I heard the master had died, and the other

Who didn’t say much but listened with his eyes

Bit his lip and wrung his hands, uncontrollably

Sobbing in the armchair as if he had fallen
In a well, only the stars to admire from now on.

Like a whisper, I climbed down and hurried home.

Someone (let it be me!) has to write the next poem.