The birds are singing
about coffee to my
growling stomach.
It’s easterly to be
miserly. Proof that
gay people are more
likely to diffuse a
tense situation
with humor
(i.e., gay!).
Au revoir, Monsieur Russert.
I’m leaving for vacation
first thing in the morning.
Tweet, tweet!
I’m a year older
than Frank O’Hara
when he died
(a year before I was born).
The city is fantastic,
but sometimes it’s just divine
to spend an evening or two
in the middle of nowhere—
a couple of miles from
Middletown, California, even—
sifting through books,
a pain in the neck from an uncomfortable bed,
waiting for a mountainside cup of coffee
as the birds welcome a new Saturday.
