Bart Schaneman

Lafayette Avenue
 
For Frank O’Hara

The light now is yellow, and there are birds. Brooklyn at 6 a.m. and I am expecting my
body to collapse from my incessant working. The clock tower is pink and gray on my
ride home, the image of me sitting there in pale blue boxer shorts looking out the window
while she slept floats ahead, unable to get off because nobody does it like her – really, I
am thinking that – and the trucks come up behind with their newspapers and fruit and
ballpoint pens. New York, no one ever told me you would make me feel so naive. New
York, I don’t care if you love me or not but just don’t crush me. I look at you, and I don’t
want to fix you, and that’s almost impossible to say about anything else.



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