April 13, 2006: Gamin, Frank O’Hara

Gamin
Frank O’Hara

All the roofs are wet
and underneath smoke
that piles softly in
streets, tongues are
on top of each other
mulling over the night.

We lay against each other
like banks of violets
while the slate slips
off the roof into the
garden of the old lady
next door. She is my

enemy. She hates cats
airplanes and my self
as if we were memories
of war. Bah! When you
are close I thumb my
nose at her and laugh.

==

Last year I posted a very energetic city poem by O’Hara, Steps, and this is kind of its inverse; quiet and indrawn and happily content. I’m in love
with the line “while the slate slips” rolling around my mouth — say
it out loud to yourself. So good!

A YEAR AGO TODAY: [this is what you love: more people. you remember],
D.A. Powell