Hey, Frank…

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
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.

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2 Responses to Hey, Frank…

  1. Genuine Poetry says:

    I love it! I think Frank would love it too!

    Like

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