by Robert McDonald
Frank O'Hara always did love
you best, and one of my
great loves
has been Frank O'Hara,
but why should we
share you? I like snow,
and I like the early darkness,
and I think I could come
to appreciate a skylight
half-open on the top floor
of a six story walk-up, dark
bread, hard cheese, a bowl
of borscht for supper, and I'd
look up and hope for a glimpse
of a star, but Russia frankly
your distances frighten me
and Russia I am not fond
of vodka, or tears, oh Russia
Frank O'Hara is one of the icons, his eyes
smudged with candle smoke,
his laughter a gang of cossacks
on vacation; I daydream of his boozy
kisses, I want to be
his dancer, and three sheets,
a madras bedspread and moth-infested
army blanket to the wind. Strike
a match, let’s share a bitter
cigarette. Russia with your help
I shall attempt
to hopscotch across
the half-frozen river.
When Robert McDonald feels blue, he cracks open The Book of Love.
