If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian <br />pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe, <br />that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf's <br />and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming. <br />Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared. <br />I have in my hands only 35c, it's so meaningless to eat! <br />and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves <br />like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you <br />to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world, <br />I must tighten my belt. <br />It's like a locomotive on the march, the season <br />of distress and clarity <br />and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter's <br />lightly falling snow over the newspapers. <br />Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet <br />of early afternoon! in the foggy autumn. <br />As they're putting up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue <br />I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets, <br />put to some use before all those coloured lights come on! <br />But no more fountains and no more rain, <br />and the stores stay open terribly late.<br /><br />Frank O'Hara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/music-5/
