A language of afternoon

It is

4:39

on a Saturday

and I am

swimming in the salt of city-suburbia

heat

tastes like

sticky orangesoda

tastes like engines running in the park

rubbed elbows heavy

against grass sticks

novels against mobile connections.

I am filling in the blanks between sun burnt shoulders

and toes span

the length of the island Manhattan

Cosmopolitans and dirty Martini Rossi

in a reflecting

green pool

extra dry

product of Italy.

5 thoughts on “A language of afternoon

  1. Ward says:

    Oh, hello Frank O’Hara!

  2. A. Bunny Steadman says:

    great stuff (now that I have time to read it.. oh what a world NOT to have a job to go to)…truthfully sweet&all about the light. Be good toots. Hope we meet up again. xoxo amy

  3. Jerry File Jr. says:

    I write prose fiction. I like to read poems because they help me write better fiction. I’m not sure why, but tis true. This is a good poem. Thanks.

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