"In Casual Conversation"
A
poem by Ellen Ferguson
In Casual Conversation
It comes up
That you have taken my idea
And sold it to another.
For money, that is.
It's not that I wanted the money
I just wanted the things it might buy:
Coats without stains, that don't make my husband wince
in the
Bloomingdale's elevator.
Fruit without blemishes, eaten not on my fire escape,
but on the
terrace
at the Four Seasons Waikiki.
A face without lines and a scent without onions.
These things, and more:
Children blissfully occupied, charmed in the company
of others,
Or one special other, who speaks French while dusting
her Origami,
And disappears into the furniture.
Furniture, made by someone with hands, not a stapler
and a dream.
Hands, trained in the art of deep-muscle tension
removal,
Removing Tuesday's tension, not the tension of ten
years.
Affection, the kind only money can buy, delightful
ephemeral affection,
Wafting away on the steam of chamomile
Never to return.
I didn't care about my idea,
I have so many more that it just takes up space in my
closet:
Next to the crumbs on the lipstick
Near the notes on receipts that will never go away.
It's just the other thing you took:
The money I will never make
Making beds
Kicking ripped stockings beneath them
Hiding old laundry whose only cessation
Would come if I hired the time.
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