Costume
Our game’s a cross between A Chorus Line
and Fame. Rehearsals, here in our backyard.
Pretend the lawn’s the stage. The tutu’s mine,
but I let David pick a leotard.
Sonnets
The Ghost of Frank O’Hara
The ghost of Frank O’Hara taps me on / the shoulder whispering / and what about …
The Heart, Like A Bocce Ball
The jack sits low in the grass. We’re dead drunk,
cannonballing across the lawn, gouging
handful divots, each of us still nursing
a tumbler of scotch brought home from the wake.
The Romance of Middle Age
Now that I’m fifty, let me take my showers at night …