Dana Gioia - 99 Poems

The sort where Cary Grant casually enters

In clothes of such exquisite tailoring

The cameras caress him like a lover,

Or Garbo lifts a cocktail to her lips

So that you, sitting in the dark, can taste

A dozen heartbreaks in a single gesture.

I know exactly what you’re thinking now—

My story and my friend seem superficial.

You don’t take people like us seriously,

Though every day you pass us on the street.

What does style matter? Quite a lot, I say.

Style isn’t fashion. It’s knowing who you are

And how you hold yourself up to the world.

It’s the clear surface that lets you see the depths.

I wake up many mornings full of dread,

Knowing my life is not what I intended.

Just like my clothes, it doesn’t really fit.

(What was it I intended anyway?)

Most lives consist of choosing the wrong things.

We try to compensate by choosing more,

As if sheer mass bestowed integrity.

II.

We met in college. Never closest friends,

We always stayed in touch. I’ll never know

Just what he saw in me — perhaps an audience.

No, that’s unfair. I think it was pure kindness.

I stumbled through life losing jobs and girls,

Wasting the little money that I made.

Tom was a golden boy. While others climbed,

He took flight. His success was existential:

It wasn’t what he did; he simply was

The way he was, which is to say, he was

Exactly what the business world wanted.

At thirty-two he started his own firm.

At thirty-five he took the venture public.

He prospered like one chosen by the gods.

His corner office seemed built on a cloud—

With miles of open sky and bright blue water

Shining through the glass walls above the bay.

So effortless and absolute his triumph,

Who could have guessed the way the story ended?

Tom put me on the list for all his parties.

I had no dignity. I always went,

Eager and underdressed. He had the trick

Of going to the limits of delight

While never overstepping to excess.

He booked the most astonishing locations—

The Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center,

The Hall of the Great Whale, the Stock Exchange,

And the Egyptian Temple at the Met.

He turned each place into a sort of stage.

These parties made me feel as if I’d walked

Into the secret movie in my mind

Where I’m the star, and everything is bright,

Glamorous, and romantic — even me.

Tom dated a succession of tall beauties.

And then came Eden. I can’t be objective

In any way about her. She was perfect—

Beautiful, elegant, intelligent.

I want to say divine —probably because

The first time that I saw her she was bathed

In golden light against a colonnade

At the Met’s temple of the goddess Isis.

The vision was purely theatrical—

Tom’s party-planners doing their paid magic.

But even tricks bestow a sense of wonder.

I watched him climb the temple steps to join her.

They were magnificent, and utterly

Asexual. They seemed like seraphim

Who had transcended bodily desire.

Their love, so eminently evident,

Expressed in warmth and courteous attention.

I was a caveman staring at the stars.

III.

After they married, I saw less of Tom—

The occasional lunch or cocktail party.

Eden was always gracious. So was he,

But his success took all his time to manage,

Not just his business but his boards and charities.

Then suddenly the invitations stopped.

I didn’t feel insulted or surprised.

I had expected such a break for years.

I barely had a life. Tom had it all.

Later I read his firm had been shut down.

I figured Tom had cashed out and retired,

Still young enough to sail around the world,

Climb Everest, or whatever it is

Ex-CEOs do with their portfolios—

An afterlife of private jets and yacht clubs.

One night I found myself at the St. Regis.

I’d made another unsuccessful pitch

Over a dinner I could not afford—

My shabby life about to crash again.

Angry, depressed, I lurched into the bar.

There at a table, by herself, sat Eden.

She wore a silver-sequined evening gown

And held a glass of wine between her hands.

She didn’t drink but rolled it back and forth,

Staring at the bright murals on the wall.

Seeing her there gave me a twinge of joy.

“What a surprise to find you here,” I said,

Acting as if I came there every night.

“Waiting for Tom?” She barely raised her eyes,

Looking at me as if I were a stranger.

“No,” she said, after a pause. “Not for Tom.

There was a benefit upstairs. I needed air.”

Then came another pause. “Didn’t you know?

Tom and I are not together now.”

I probably should have left her at that point,

But I’m not skilled in social situations,

And so I simply blurted out, “What happened?”

She turned the glass around again and told me.

IV.

“About three years ago, Tom became ill.

The doctors couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong.

He was in constant pain, but he insisted,

‘We won’t let this condition slow us down.

It’s just another problem to be solved.’

We both knew he was good at solving problems.

But month by month, the symptoms got much worse.

The doctors offered different diagnoses.

They gave him drugs, more drugs, then radiation.

If it had only been the pain, I think

We would have made it through this trial together,

But something unexpected happened to him.

His looks began to change. His face puffed up.

His features thickened, and his hair thinned out.

He didn’t look that bad, at least at first,

But he no longer looked at all like Tom.

One morning he stopped going to the office.

He was the one who always closed the deals.

Without him, business slowed, the clients fled.

A few months later Tom shut the place down.

His face kept getting worse. One afternoon

When I came home from work, he left the room.

Shutting the door, he cried, ‘Don’t look at me!’

I leaned against the door and said I loved him

No matter what he looked like. I see now

What a mistake that was. Later that night

He took the mirrors down in the apartment.

I didn’t like it, but I understood.

I hardly saw him after that. He hid

Whenever I was home. A few days later

I saw that all our photographs were gone,

Even our wedding book, all thrown away.

I screamed at him, then cried. I asked him why.

He said, ‘I didn’t like them anymore.’

Six months ago he simply moved away—

No note, no warning, nothing else was missing,

No clothes, no books, not even his cell phone,

None of the beautiful things we chose together.

I thought he would come back. I waited for him.

I worried that he might have killed himself.

Then a new check came through on his account—

Just for a small amount, but signed by him.

Finally, some detectives tracked him down.

They gave me an address. And so I went.

The taxi took me to a tenement.

Could the address be right? The place was sordid.

I hesitated to get out alone.

I had the driver wait along the curb.

Garbage was piled on both sides of the door.

The corridors were dark and smelled of grease.

How could Tom leave me for this awful place?

I found his door and knocked. There was no answer.

I knocked again, and then I lost control.

I pounded wildly, screaming at the door.