JOYCE TREMAIN

​FREDERICK POLLACK

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In 1947, a few sprigs
of freshly-bloomed forsythia;
dark leaves, their container
and species unclear;
white petals in an orange, wide-mouthed kettle;
some blue amidst brown shadows on a vase.
Nothing Cubist, but everything is “foggy”
(I said as a kid), receding
borderless into a lighter green.
Your reputation peaked early.
​
We’ve taken down the Max Kahn cats,
black and white, drinking milk.
It barely fits under the stairs.
You look good on the new beige paint, which
looks good in most lights on the wall,
which looks fine, cracks re-plastered,
holes from old hangers filled.