and if you see me today, you’ll be handed a poem-present. I’m carrying around Frank O’Hara’s “Lunch Poems,” because it’s small, nearly pocket-sized, and because I love those poems, as well as pockets, as well as smallness & Otis Redding & a syrup drizzle & the name “Osmanthus Fancy” for a tea. Below, a Frank O’Hara classic:
A STEP AWAY FROM THEM
It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
lalalalallaa Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Maina, wife of
Federico Fellini, é bell’ attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
lallalalalalal There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full of life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhatten Storage Warehouse,
which they’ll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
lalalalalala A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.
(the dapper O’Hara)