Water bubbling in a vacant aquarium,
red fibers of moon
through the blank window pane,
meditating upon the world’s great cranium
and a dream of Frank O’Hara’s Manhattan
glistening in a ragged noon.
1956, I’m meandering with Frank
through his lunch hour
among Manhatta’s towering spires
and the grinding wail of traffic.
Avenues dusted with cigarette butts,
and Frank smokes Gauloises
and I smoke Camels
if I’m not rolling my own.
Now we’re rolling down
the sidewalks edging our way
to through the onslaught
of slick suited socialites
and businessmen shrouded
in gray flannel
and the greased proletarians.
All of New York like a quivering heart,
so unlike the parody of my hometown
whose buildings aren’t stacked
quite so high. And later, for cocktails,
Frank eying the boys,
me eying the girls, and drunkenly
Wooing them with promises
of poetry, and maybe we’ll get lucky,
maybe we won’t
as the florescence of Times Square
embellishes the sky.