Harmony
- a poem by Kelle Groom
It’s different when you’re not here —
for instance, there is always
too much food
and the waitress does not speak French.
C’est bon, avoir, oubliette, the only words I remember.
Once I lived with a man who came back from Paris
And gave me poems in French about water — but he was angry
at the grape juice
on his couch, a scratch on the mirror, dust — when I left,
he said, stay.
I am sitting at a table in a French café
in Florida —
earlier I sat in a French café in New York
with a man who criticized the smudges on my sunglasses,
the sand in my hair —
the table is the same size, a melody,
and the men at the next table converse:
Man One: I got the gist, but are the maps really what the logistics world
is worried about
Cows make me feel human because we’re
so different — two voices that blend, two colors.
These trees — red with gray,
weird, off-key, palmetto vs. ocean line
or two people: letting a person have a bad time, the other
person making room, arms can hold you and
things that are sweet together.
It is only when I lose contact with the painting that the
result is a mess. Otherwise there is pure harmony, an easy give and take, and
the painting comes out well. 
