for hannah.

To Frank O’Hara

Oh Frank! the party is over. and here you sit, slumped over and slouching like a sack of soiled laundry, left alone with nothing more than that miserable coffee stain and a few french cigarettes.

playing the piano, or trying, in the otherwise diluted dark, with your shoelaces untied, and the window wide-eyed and open… your grammar is now worse than your manners have ever been, just look at this mess!

the empty glasses stand still, cracked and stained with sour smiles, and the kettle has been left to boil upon the stove steaming, blowing, long and hot, reminding you of thoughtful lovers long gone.

Oh Frank! straighten out your tie and run a comb through your hair. “you needn’t be afraid of me, i do not love you.”