Desire
(after Frank O'Hara)
O'Hara hung hot
in my pocket, walking
six blocks to Broadway, desire:
O'Hara's crackling collage, brought
along for the one-nine downtown,
after groceries--granola, water chestnuts
--the bank, blank CDs.
If I didn't feel like walking, I had
O'Hara in my pocket, opened
once, like a prophecy, a family Bible,
my eye landed on pizzicato....
Beat, color, heat, desire, I want to write
like O'Hara, does it count
if I haven't read him yet? I read
sides of cars: today we drive
the fine Expresso, a hot strong coupe-to-go...
Can I get my coup to-go?
The tall mumbling man in pale suit and shoes
makes me think of Tom Wolfe,
and on Broadway, just for me, a sign:
a streetside, wise bookseller hawks
Bonfire of the Vanities. I buy it,
outside the bank, cross bank
off my list, roll on past nectarines, papaya,
to an outdoor corner table to stab
my straw into a slice of lemon,
take O'Hara, open him up, pour him
into my mind like amber tea, iced.
-Kelly Vaughan
May 31, 2001