The Man Whose Name I Have Forgotten, or, Giacometti (A Poghem)

The Man Whose Name I Have Forgotten

loved Giacometti
or perhaps he just loved saying “Giacometti”
he was that type
the New Yorker who was terrified of New York
and came to San Francisco
and was now equally terrified
of losing his New York accent
and it was good practice for him to say
Giacometti this, Giacometti that, Giacometti,
Giacometti.
It helped.

But I’m not giving him
enough credit- I should
be better to him, since I’ve already
forgotten his name. Then again
he promised to split parking with me when we went
to the Museum of Modern Art and
never did- I’ll call that
even.

Still I should be better
to him. He loved art, truly, he was the kind of man
who could stare at a single piece,
postmodern art, paint drizzled on canvas, even a solid blue canvas,
for hours.

We spent six hours at the Museum
and when I had walked through all the exhibits
and walked down from the fourth floor looking for him
to tell him it was time to leave
I found him
on the first floor
still
in the first room
still
standing.