[Woman 1, Willen de Kooning, 1952]
The Real Estate Man on Sunday Selling the House
I can see others consisting
Like my dog
Flush on green stubs of grass
Flush on the sun drying my
red bleached hair,
I’m flush against my wine.
And his clop of business shoes
slap commercial claps
against the chiming Sunday bell song
My dog back arches to the sound
and sun as the plainness pleases him
and we both hope for disappearance.
My dog sinks down in absence
and knows only what is necessary
The Sunday sale of goods.
A fiddler fool in a gray suit
Did it feel good and strong to rip
the dandelion’s head? Was it a message you wanted to go
far and wide?
That you own the very
That could swallow you and
tomorrow . . . or tonight?
No. You’ve been stood up
On this hill that’s old.
Older than you by fifty generations
And the house? How did you come
to be speaking for it?
And if you’re really its lover
aren’t you groveling in the weeds
to free it of the beauteous yellow of
dandelion? Ethnic cleansing of the sort
you show yourself to believe in.
Well, here maybe come your customers.
Two sweat-shirted boys who carry big date books. Papers.
And so many contacts. The fine thrill
of networking. Brass plates,
heraldic lions, flank their eyes
And they conquer you in their very stride.