Lunching with Frank O’Hara on My Deck

1 Minute Read Time

This photograph shows a table with a tray of lasagna, and a fork, tomatoes, and a plant. — Photo by Karolina Kołodziejczak on Unsplash


The Russian sage is sprouting leaves from a brown stem 
dormant since November. Weeks ago, I pulled away
the dead, unsure whether it was a perennial,

all the while O’Hara insisting now the phone can be answered, 
nobody calling, only an echo / all can confess to be home
and waiting, which reminds me the era

of the landline is over, though we’ve found even better ways 
of returning home to pain. I don’t even have to
invite him over, offer, instead of yogurt,

a plate of lasagna with extra cheese: he lands on my deck railing, 
carried on the wings of a rock dove, its purple
iridescence an amazement, telling me

my lasagna’s the best, just the right amount of ricotta, 
reminding me of the preciousness of moss, helping 
me see the blooming pampas grass

is a clowder of cats, bushy tails waving in the April breeze.
How are you feeling, he asks. Like the owner of a palace, 
I confess, though more than a little distressed.