Close Enough
When I told the poet from South Africa
that when de Kooning came to see Frank
in the hospital, Frank all battered and purple
and covered with tubes, Frank opened his eyes
and said, “Oh Bill, you shouldn’t have gone
to the trouble,” her eyes started to fill
with tears, though she didn’t know much
of anything about Frank O’Hara’s life.
[I didn’t think to tell her that he too
could get emotional—ballet could
make him cry or a movie or one drink
too many and a friend to cry with.]
Let’s put that in brackets so I can remember
to cut it out the next time I see it. And
now my ankle itches, the cool morning
is flowing into the many windows of this room,
borne by birdsong and the light of the sun
that has come all this way just to help us
find our way around and recognize each other
from the distance we keep until we forget to
and become a part of the perfect space we’re in
because we let ourselves just be there. Like Frank
and Bill? Not exactly, but close enough.
