MUNCH
 
    I catch sight of him
    from the corner of my eye.
    Why does he follow me?
    I've been his mistress
    for months.  He glances
    the other way, like a pickpocket
    aware
    of the shopkeeper's gaze.
    Trust is as foreign
    to him as friendship.
    He never asks
    about
    me. 
 
    It's Edouard needs paint,
    or Edouard needs a red
    tablecloth for his picture,
    or Edouard needs...
    to wake me up
    at 2 or 3 a.m.
    Never mind, he says,
    get dressed. 
 
    So
    I sit on the edge
    of the bed.  But I sag,
    my eyes bleary from fatigue.
    What kind of model am I?
    No wonder, I argue, you can't sell
    your paintings.
    He is as fidgety
    as his brushstrokes.
    He is brusque, and arrogant
    one moment,
    a hurt child the next.
    When I threaten
    to leave, he panics.
    He weeps.
    He begs me to stay.
    Idiot, I whisper to myself,
    and dressed
    in a red gown
    (a gift from Edouard)
    I roll over onto my side. 
    "I'm not like you, Edouard.
    I've always been able
    to sleep, to let
    go."

THE ANNUAL MAMMOGRAM
 
Is this the breast
her baby suckled?
It lies there
like an old sock.
The doctor steps away.
A machine hums.
Ok, one more
the doctor says, as if
one revealing photo
wasn't enough. 
So the other twin
is helped up
onto the shelf,
and lies down
as if for a nap.
Another "photo"
is snapped. 
 
Now she can go home
and wait.  What
she fears most
besides lumps
the size of BBs
is a voice
on her answering machine:
her doctor's.
Give me a call.
We need to talk.
Humor helps.
She is eighty one.
She tells me she would trade
her bikini
and her closet of lingerie
for a week
without a phone
call.  Who needs
a bikini she asks?
There's a nude
beach near
by.

   TAXI RIDES
 
  Why is it that every taxi driver's meter
  is broken?  When meters worked the road
  was shorter than Central Park.  Now
  it's as long as the road to Rome.  The
  Orient Express doesn't travel farther
  than a taxi from work to my apt.
  Hey, didn't this cost only $40?
  "When, mister?  1927?"  No, a week ago.
  Don't you remember me?  The torch
  of red hair, the black coat...you said
  that I looked the way Vivaldi
  would have looked as a rabbi. 
  "Vivaldi?  Who's Vivaldi?  Mister,
  I have 20 million customers
  in this city.  Do I remember you?  Sure.
  You have eleven illigitimate children
  and you're on the lam from the FBI. Am
  I right?  Now pay and get
  out."