novembre

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hum.

although i am a half hour
early i just missed you:
the keys are dustless on
the table and the toilet

is still bubbling. what
minute on the subway should
have been a proper goodbye?
if connections had been

better would your sore
throat have let you whisper
adieu, sagesse, i'll
stay with you forever?

i am alone now. only
my own face stares back
from the window, the
record, this white paper.

i put on my black shirt
and my sneakers, whistle
glazounoff and try to
pick up the dirty room.

last night i said i'm
sick. today is very windy.
the curtains are pulled
back but the sun goes

somewhere else. i've
seen all the movies. i
think i'm going to cry.
yes. to kill the time.

- frank o'hara

1:42 am - 06.08.02

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