On the Seawalla community gallery of new writing, art and commentary hosted by Ron Slate

A Walk with Frank O’Hara

 

This morning I’m thinking of Frank O’Hara

strolling the streets of Manhattan,

debonair in white flannels, a small notebook

in one pocket, an egg and tomato

sandwich wrapped in wax paper in another.

He stops at a newsstand, plucks a Times

from the counter, buys a strong coffee.

Frank skims the headlines, then takes his lunch

to Washington Square, a place I’d come

to know well a decade later, as a girl of fifteen

wearing beads and feathers in my long braid,

those days my friends and I patrolled

the Village, eager for Dylan sightings, careful

of the twitchy speed freaks panhandling

on the east side. These days I’d be lost

there as any tourist, gawking at the locals

and the new condos shadowing the avenues.

O’Hara sits on the same smooth rim

of the fountain where we’d perch to flirt

with strangers, giddy at cutting class. Unlike us,

Frank’s urbane, tres cool, even as he sips his coffee,

chews his sandwich, and squints up at the sun.

Maybe he’s considering which clubs to hit

tonight, or where to dine before catching

the new Truffaut. He opens his notebook

and writes his sure lines in an elegant hand.

Here, there are no newsstands and the shops

are closed, some for good, the streets

downtown deserted as an empty movie set

and as sad. I walk the bridge over the Iowa River

wary, behind my mask, of those who come

too close. I’m trying to forget the morning’s news —

the 200 at a house-party in Beverly Hills,

the 250,000 riders in Sturgis. The virus

dirtying the air each time they laugh.

One writer warns that this is how we end,

not by contagion but because we no longer care

for each other. I stop and look out over

the river, imagine O’Hara and me walking

together in the city, and it’s spring, and we can

smell the salted pretzels and boiled hot dogs

from the vendors’ carts, the bright flowers

circling the plane trees. It’s still the ugly fifties,

but the Kennedys, King, and Malcom X

are still alive, and neither one of us knows

anyone who’s left real life for Vietnam.