Illustration by Ella Corder
Re Frank O’Hara’s “Rhapsody.”
every morning cold coffee and my leaf blower
just the fat policeman in 402 with my
double-wide and basketball shorts (no ball) ripping
the engine like a matador or like a machine
gun walking round and round
my house, kick the deaf-blind goldendoodle in the
fluttering Spring, break the
frost and melt my marriage’s three miscarriages, four if
you count the twin
there are no leaves on the ground or
for that matter masks in the hospital as time slips into
time; the Germans only talk about love when they
talk about people, not coffee or oranges or making—
but I love my body
in my slippers grabbing the Inquirer with a gruff
beard always scratching my head solving a
crime or a baby wondering what’s the use of circling round and round
the streets on patrol
they circle round me when I wake up in the morning
like a cherub on a cloud (cumulonimbus) asking
if I do love oranges if I do love coffee and I drink them down
do twins see the same shapes in clouds? I love them
melting over me but there are lawns to tend and
worlds to traipse in lonely Spring
