Ode to Sylvia

ODE TO SYLVIA
(AND OTHER YUPPIE WOMEN)


Sylvia will never know
the sweet smell of garlic
wafting from the bistro
across the street,
or the owner's grin
as he wipes hands on apron
as I pass.



Sylvia knows a lot,
but not the crunchy tree bark,
as I lean back
against its oak eternity.
Sylvia will never know
the taste of juniper
or the full-bodied aroma
of an armload of peonies,
still wet from rain.


Sylvia will never know
the press of a baby's foot against the palm,
the quiet wee-hour'd rocking
of a crying child,
the crisp colors of geraniums
lining the sill in morning light.
Sylvia will never know the pain of longing
in a mother's heart.

She's smart, a PhD, I think,
but there are things which
Sylvia will never know.