frank o’hara at the star of india
frank o’hara
is eating tonight
at the star of india restaurant
he went out looking to get
a drink at the cedar tavern
but found it gone
another victim of new york city’s
devil dance with its past
frankie went looking for his bar
but in its place was the star of india
so instead of a whiskey on the rocks
or whatever it was that
frank drank on nights when the poems
wouldn’t come
he found himself
sucking down a cold taj mahal
with his chicken vindaloo
lighting smokes outside
in the muggy curry air
instead of watching pollock
use an ashtray for a urinal
poor frank is splitting nan bread
and an order of cold samosas
with kenneth koch and john ashberry
over at a corner table
they’re listening to a sitar not lady day
and hoping that allen ginsberg doesn’t come in
with drunken kerouac or greg corso
frank o’hara
is eating at the star of india tonight
and there isn’t a goddamned thing
that he can do about it
except maybe go back to the apartment
and write a poem
because the cedar tavern is no more
on university place
and the world will keep spinning toward
oblivion
but don’t feel too bad for frank
he doesn’t seem so upset
he’s having mango ice cream
sharing a coke with you
we’re talking to larry rivers about rachmaninoff
and frank is smiling for a change
he feels good
he knows this place beats
a walk on the beach
dodging seagulls and dune buggies.
Solid poem, Jay.
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