You Will Never Be Frank O’Hara

How wonderful it is to wake up in this winter rental 
        with a sinus infection 
and have no one to bring me a bowl of soup and leave 
        to meet with what surely is a published poet with tanned, smooth legs and 
a mouth that wraps around a penis like a rosebud.  

You don’t know how good it is to get out of bed 
        and go down to the bay 
down Beachdale Road 
        and count all the dead horseshoe crabs, 
see how barnacles suck on the carcasses 
        and how the seashells stick to the carapaces 
as if by some calcic coincidence. 

If you were here, like you wanted to be when you wanted me always, I’d tell you 
        about how the blood from the horseshoe crab is used for science, but 
the new, implausible you 
        is back in the city, 
bartending, fucking around,
        making a woman straight out of Titian or Klimt or Modigliani
the drink you named after me 
        back when having a Coke with you 
was worth all the after hours.

Maybe I’m not giving you enough credit. 
        Though let’s be honest, you’re still probably maxed out and wasted. 
No, you might be explaining to that woman
        how the New York constitutional convention will benefit the working class 
and how Citibikes are a victory for socialism.
        But you’re probably not deserving of the credit, and 
you’re really just reciting Cummings to her, or whatever else will get her into bed. 

So yes, it is great to get out of my own bed now
        and not have my hair smell like your armpit and probably someone else’s,
and not shower before showering together, 
        and not question scarfing down the third quesadilla
or having that third glass of whiskey, 
        and not have you tell me to take it easy while you take it from someone else,
and not be late for work because spoons are more emotionally lucrative, 
        and not feel blanketed 
by the uncertainty of your warmth. 

Here is to never having you 
        look me squarely in the eye again
before telling me I am unstable 
        before storming out before I’m done 
throwing your shoes in the garbage.

God, yes, it’s nice
        to get out of bed, 
and not trip over your bike, 
        and smoke as much as I want,
and give my neighbor an eyeful of breast
        between the billowing drapes.