The excuse
.
The shadow of a leafless tree spilled across my desk
this morning; its limbs climbing over a stack of
books and putting a crack in my favorite porcelain
cup, but somehow managing to bend around
the picture frames that decorate my desk.
In one of the frames is a Walker Evans photograph:
It is 1929, a young black woman is standing by
the entrance of the old elevated train on 42nd Street.
She is wrapped in a fur collared coat, a string of pearls
and a cloche hat and is looking directly into the lens.
Standing next to her, in a tanned leather frame,
is a photograph of Buster Keaton posing on the
steps of a cruise ship. He is leaning; his elbow
high on the railing and right hand cupping
the side of his face. He is looking away.
Behind him, in a larger wooden frame, is a painting
by Andrew Wyeth of an old man, asleep, on
top of a quilted bed: All three of these frames
are positioned on my desk, like you might
arrange pictures of your family.
When I thought of you and looked at the time,
a scowling wind swayed the shadow from
the stack of books and revealed the left eye
of Raymond Carver staring straight at me.
All of this, is why I am late. I am sorry.
