Simon

A small and somewhat nervous man,
Far from humble origins
On that other river, near Shanghai.
On a cold night taking refuge
In his restaurant, we discuss
The way old men do—weather, sport,
The price of tuna in Chicago—
For it would not suit the standards
Of our time (Of which I feign
Some dim awareness) for me to pry
Too deeply into circumstance, anyhow
Illusive, to seek a false coherence
In each others’ private paths.
Though I cannot help but wonder
If I have again with reticence
Mistaken manners
For a secretiveness I despise,
Which closely guards its secrets even
From itself, and flatters us
That what is precious never must
Be risked in coarse indulgence with
Those we know our betters, though
Our betters rather see us risk,
And see us. Or did I simply not
Know how to say to Simon that in his fish
I tasted qualities I covet in my favorites
And hunger for myself:
Assertive, but in balance,
Complexly organized,
Filled more with love than forethought,
But giving thought its due; elegant
But never fragile; and—hardest trick—
Well aged but ever new.

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