My Young Aunts Have Lunch with Cary Grant
Looking exactly as he always looks,
except for the open-necked shirt,
Grant pauses in mid-spoonful
of iced fruit cocktail in silver dish
to ask Priscilla a question.
Her beautiful profile looks exactly,
or almost, the same today.
The year is 1947. She is twenty,
wears a gardenia in her dark hair.
The businessman beside her,
with the natty breastpocket handkerchief,
has probably arranged all this.
A client of my grandfather?
Behind them, at duller tables,
everyone´s watching the photographer,
or the back of the movie star´s head.
Anne Marie, my younger aunt, disappears
at the photograph´s edge. That´s all right.
In about three days she´ll have her own
Western adventure: getting clawed
on the arm when she offers a sandwich
to a grizzly in Yellowstone Park.
