Improving Week 7

 Frank O'Hara "A Step Away from Them"

  

I am adding a title, as suggested, that works against the subject.  This is my promised NY love poem.

Looking for my Bird Dog.

Brown clouds jump the city and it's morning.

The last day of winter. The icy perch rested

forever. Snow white still covers my blood shot 

windows, as Rutgers bell's stop my silent drums.

Sylvia and I ride down the Ansonia laundry shoot,

we arrive at sub zero like larks in the cage.

It's a ghostly voice in the middle of a mildewed

basement that cracks up my jazz shoes with fears of mold.

I take the west exit to Marty Robins Bistro.

Sylvia needs feeding and pecks at a orange salad,

while I pour Heinz 57 and some Hunts on my burger.

We pick brunch mainly for the pricey, free champagne.

She smiles at the lox, not me.

I grab some half-daisies for her from the Korean
grocer with his isles of Alpo,
Cat lady is there and meows at Sylvia.

                                                            Suddenly,

dirty bubble wrap starts snapping onto pavement,

while managing to squeeze out an ounce of sky seltzer.

Near the subway, the smell of wet brownstone mingles

with bamboo sticks. We open the latter to pay a dry walk.

Her hand in mine. Now, I desire the clear nights when a drift moon

uncovers half a star and drips lime shafts onto

the pitch of the Beacon's roof. The shafts trickle

down 35 floors to the under rail and clutch the protection

of a pizza stain.

                       But,

I am not there yet. Today is only lunch

and a copy of the backstage, as we drift off

under the floating bamboo sticks hoping

for better hunting conditions.

The taste of mandarin floats in her kiss,

as we enter the corner of Strawberry fields.

The field hides the Met. We will leave cloisters,

hipster, hustlers and handball players for another day.

                                The fields have no strawberries,

but a patch of weeds,and incense on sprayed plastic flowers,

perfume the granite memorial site. I hear music, or a horn,

or a tree barking. It is hard to tell as everything is covered in gum.

In the Frisbee field the boomerangs are grounded,

yet we flock to find them behind bottle tops and brambles.

the sunlamp turns on and bamboo slides down to reveal men

in gloves  removing the old mulberry bush.

                                                    We pass Blue Grass Willie,

and he plays guitar, while we uncover plastic lids, broken collars

and  laminated business cards for St. Bernardo's Italian Restaurant.

First Alvin Alley Died, then Rex Harrison, then Jim Henson.

But is there room enough in the fields for everyone.

                                                        A cup of hot mocha,

                                           and back to class at studio B.

                   My heart is in my hand, and our hands are dirty.

Everywhere there is plastic, but we are looking for home.