Six Feet Away from Them

It's my lunch hour, so I go
into the kitchen among the Japanese
plates. First, into the refrigerator
to feed my vulnerable
plumpening torso some leftover curry
and kombucha, with my purple leggings
on. They protect me from falling
spirits, I guess. Then into the
bedroom where my skirts are hanging up
and totally unworn – this really
grates. The sun is out, but the
virus floats in the air. I look
at bargains on Amazon. The
cat is playing in the living room.

On to the foyer, where the funky chandelier
glitters over my head, and a
a small waterfall of tears pours lightly. My
boyfriend sits in the kitchen with a
toothpick, languorous but agitated.
A governor goes live: the boyfriend
groans and rubs his forehead. Everything
suddenly sucks: it is 12 :40 of
a Thursday.

Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, but when did I last see it?
I stop to check my facebook messages.
I’m restless and unemployed, e bella poetessa.

I bite some chocolate. A lady in
knots on such a day puts her Siberian cat
into a stroller.

There are several people out
on Ocean Parkway today, which
makes it more contagious. First
Henry Grimes died, then John Prine,
then Ellis Marsalis, Jr. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the Azerbaijani babushkas
and the posters for dogwalkers and
the new CubeSmart storage place,
which they'll open next month. I
used to think they’d build a grocery
store there.

A glass of water
and back to looking for work. My heart is in my
throat, it is Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara.