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.