The Candid Decorator by James Merrill

The Candid Decorator

I thought I would do over

All of it. I was tired

Of scars and stains, of bleared

Panes, tinge of the liver.

The fuchsia in the center

Looked positively weird

I felt it—dry as paper.

I called a decorator.

In next to no time such

A nice young man appeared.

What had I in mind?

Oh, lots and lots of things—

Fresh colors, pinks and whites

That one would want to touch;

The windows redesigned;

The plant thrown out in favor,

Say, of a small tree, 

An orange or a pear . . .

He listened dreamily.

Combing his golden hair

He measured with one glance

The distance I had come

To reach this point. And then

He put away his comb

He said: “Extravagance!

Suppose it could be done.

You’d have to give me carte

Blanche and an untold sum.

But to be frank, my dear, 

Living here quite alone

(Oh I have seen it, true,

But me you needn’t fear)

You’ve one thing to the good:

While not exactly smart,

Your wee place, on the whole

It couldn’t be more ‘you.’

Still, if you like—” I could 

Not speak. He had seen my soul,

Had said what I dreaded to hear.

Ending the interview 

I rose, blindly. I swept

To show him to the door,

And knelt, when he had left,

By my Grand Rapids chair, 

And wept until I laughed

And laughed until I wept.