I’m sitting in the park behind the library. It’s lunch time.I’m eating falafel and reading the News.
I look up. I see that guy – Frank.
You know the one who used to sell postcards at the stand outside of MOMA.
So I say: How you doing, Frank. He looks at me – squints – sits down and bums a cigarette.
He pulls out a big gold plated lighter. Frank ain’t a matches kind of guy.
So, How you doing Frank?
He hands me a poem. He’s always handing you a poem.
I read it. I hand it back and say,
Frank, why ain’t you a painter?
Week 7 of ModPO – just finished essay #3 on Frank O’Hara’s poem Why I am not a Painter My brain needed some relief and I wrote this.