Shane Allison
This is Where Frank O’Hara Lives
Walk past Metro Drugs where
the items are drastically reduced.
The place of big savings, special offers.
Break past the well-dressed old ladies,
a woman with her baby wrapped in her arms.
Veer off the sidewalk, past a parking meter to avoid
running into a herd of hot guys.
One of them is wearing the shoes I want.
Move past a woman digging for change to
save her Dodge Shadow from getting towed.
So excited. Going as fast as my Reeboks will
take me.
Almost stepped in dog shit.
Almost kicked over a coffee cup
of change belonging to some homeless guy.
Walk past Gotham Bar & Grill,
the bored employee in the
box office of Cinema Village.
A few more steps. I’m getting warmer.
Can smell the ground beef from Big Enchilada.
There goes 12th Street Books.
Better slow down, don’t want to miss it.
There’s the tiger-print lined journal I’ve been looking for.
Today’s special is Mixed Bean Soup
and Fresh Fried Squid.
Frank’s place should be right around this corner.
Here it is.
Apartment 90.
He’s sandwiched between a restaurant that serves
the best Japanese noodles;
A place that sells Cuisinart kitchen appliances.
That must be the window he sits in composing verse.
He’s got a great view of a Fed-Ex truck.
Leaning against the Civic E-X, its tinted windows,
I’m dying to meet him.
But he’s probably busy
doing laundry or watching his favorite soap.
I wish he could come out and play.
We could sit in Union Square and watch all the cute guys walk by
while we eat hot knish and drink cold sodas.
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