A CONVERSATION WITH GERTRUDE STEIN

“It is always Tuesday!”

Thus she asserted it.

Quickly I countered,

quite slyly, I thought,

sure of my fact and logic,

“But is there not Monday?”

“Of course, ninny, just one day before,”

and she smiled triumphantly,

“Tuesday!”

I called on Wednesday

even sweetening it a bit to please her,

“Mercredi? Miercoles?”

“Ah,” she said, “one day after.”

Again she smiled

with a touch of pity, I think, at my ploy,

“Tuesday!” she said.

I reasoned and lost.

Thursdays were useless

even I knew that.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday

each fell in its turn

until at last, I, too,

crumbled, conquered,

for in a strange way I came to see

that for it to be so was good,

and, maybe, even right.

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