you had lunch with Frank O’Hara. Talked
of poets, painters, former lovers,
and trips to Fire Island where all the pretty
boys bathe in summer sun.
You talked of Miles Davis clubbed
twelve times. Shuddered at your lack of power,
sipped ice tea, nearly pissed yourself
at Frank’s Personism.
And I wonder if he ever took you to bed.
If you ever fed his fetish for young men
with skin the color of coffee without cream
or sugar. Men he imagined sucking off
in movie houses or bathroom stalls,
Billie Holiday crooning. I can see it:
you there in his sheets naked, dark,
beautiful, and him, Frank, half-hard
and glowing white by the window, fingers
on the keys, a new poem begun.
Now you are old, swallowed whole
by this stage, by this harsh academic lighting,
and I wish you were still LeRoi,
wish no one had blown up this America
where a gay white poet once made you laugh.