Lunch with Mary Oliver

Spent the day reading through the many books of Mary Oliver poetry I have, looking for choice poems to read at my workshop tomorrow. Seems like the appropriate way to honor the passing of this fine poet. Found myself surprised by how long I've been a fan and then remembered writing a poem in 2006 that included her. Here it is:

LUNCH WITH MARY OLIVER

                      © 2006 Doug Goodkin

Two hours of cycling through the fog,

Winding through the hills of Marin

Just at the Larkspur border,

The sun emerged.

Perfect for my sidewalk lunch at the Left Bank café.

I quickly ordered my meal

and browsed through a new book of poems

by Mary Oliver.

How happy I was, edging to the state of gratitude that Ms. Oliver

sings so constantly and eloquently.

And it was just at that moment of euphoria, just as I was nodding in

agreement with her praise of the world,

that my ear caught the voice

of the woman at the table next to mine

dining with her two friends.

She was telling them about her Pilates workout

And her friend who sailed to Costa Rica

And the new insulation in her house.

And on she went,

and on,

and on,

 like an out-of-tune oboe

circular breathing through a themeless melody.

My iced tea arrived and she had yet to take even an 8^th note rest in her Symphony of

Small Talk.

Then came my hearty whole wheat bread appetizer

and her friends had still not gotten a word in edgewise,

sideways or

through the back door.

The waiter brought my Jacques Pépin roasted eggplant sandwich and the

Vapid Wagnerian Opera about Nothing droned on with nary a change in chord.

My French Fries served vertically in a coned napkin were powerless to stop her

And by the iced tea refill,

 still not a hint of a cadence.

How I wanted to shout, “NOBODY CARES ABOUT

YOUR FUCKIN’  INSULATION!!!”

like a thunderous timpani

announcing the final chords

           of a concert that never should have been.

But instead, I just finished the last leaf of arugula on my plate

and stared at the empty chair opposite me,

wondering what it would be like

             if Mary Oliver was sitting there having lunch with me.

what kind of conversation we would have.

And how she would react to this radio tuned to the wrong frequency.

I pictured her eating thoughtfully and then looking up with a wide grin and announcing,

“Just listen to the rustle of those eucalyptus leaves in the wind.”