The writer's method of handling his opposition is through more imagery: “I´ve been looking at old-fashioned plaids, fingering / Starched white collars, wondering whether there's a way / To get them really white again” (30-32). The shirts with the “starched white collars” symbolize the writer's life-his image and his reputation with the public. He's trying to figure out how to make perceptions of himself “really white again” (32). This image is purely Ashbery, demonstrating perfectly the obvious that no one else would think to write on; the feeling of wanting a well-worn shirt to be truly clean once more is almost identical to the desire of having one's standing as high as possible.
The final line of the poem is cryptic: “My wife / Thinks I'm in Oslo-Oslo, France, that is” (32-33). Obviously, Oslo is in Norway, and Ashbery mentioned at a reading in Santa Fe in November 1985 that he doesn't know of any Oslo in France. This statement might be implying that he is lying to his wife, which would make sense, as it would bring the poem to a solid close: if the speaker is lying to his wife, that means he's got bad character even at home. The lie to his wife hits harder-it's not even about the face he puts on for the public; it's his private face.
Ashbery the artist gave way to Ashbery the poet. The imagery in poems like this proves that the poet never lost the artist, though. And it's a good thing for us readers.
Worsening Situation
Like a rainstorm, he said, the braided colors
Wash over me and are no help. Or like one
At a feast who eats not, for he cannot choose
From among the smoking dishes. This severed hand
Stands for life, and wander as it will,
East or west, north or south, it is ever
A stranger who walks beside me. O seasons,
Booths, chaleur, dark-hatted charlatans
On the outskirts of some rural fete,
The name you drop and never say is mine, mine!
Some day I'll claim to you how all used up
I am because of you but in the meantime the ride
Continues. Everyone is along for the ride,
It seems. Besides, what else is there?
The annual games? True, there are occasions
For white uniforms and a special language
Kept secret from the others. The limes
Are duly sliced. I know all this
But can't seem to keep it from affecting me,
Every day, all day. I've tried recreation,
Reading until late at night, train rides
And romance.
One day a man called while I was out
And left this message: "You got the whole thing wrong
From start to finish. Luckily, there's still time
To correct the situation, but you must act fast.
See me at your earliest convenience. And please
Tell no one of this. Much besides your life depends on it."
I thought nothing of it at the time. Lately
I´ve been looking at old-fashioned plaids, fingering
Starched white collars, wondering whether there's a way
To get them really white again. My wife
Thinks I'm in Oslo- Oslo, France, that is.
