Unsaturated red, eye-blue, rain-gray –
embroidered arrows, orbs and squares –
the necktie I put on recalls
the Constructivists we admired.
Indulging my stoop-shouldered vanity,
one of you, most likely both together,
bought it at Arfango’s a dozen years ago,
a token from our heart-city.
Richard is dead five years now,
Agnes longer, and unfamiliar mourner’s eyes
in a familiar face stare from the mirror,
seeing the Gordian knot still taut.
Gasping at the January wind, I turn away
from the sleet and slobber of University Avenue
into the narrow lobby of Mount Sinai –
its humid warmth close with morning bustle,