One Monday you won a race with that bitch
Wit
you bikini-clad in a Palm Springs hotel
Writing poems
on Vogue subscription slips
O it was practically
a requirement for something
Remember
how your empty chuckles heh heh
Tumbleweeded across the carpet right out
The
sliding door I opened to watch pool dogs
Yodeling
at the perfidious blueness of the day?
You
paper-airplaned your poems over the balcony
And
they kept growing larger beneath the great
Flag
of the desert sky where only one other thing
Moved
O irritable cactus that would not decide
To be half
full or half empty and you smiled just
Wait you said Frank
O’Hara may pass here
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