Could never place him.
But I'd go into
BAR on 2nd Avenue
and there he was, face
lighting up, helpful
silly and eager, yes
started again
and now unstoppable
on an expressway
of talk, fast and funny, but
after half an hour
I'd edge away.
J.J.,
he said, J.J.,
that's my name.
Talked, that time,
of getting something published
--So, you write! I said.
Why, didn't you know,
his smile triumphant,
I was
Frank O'Hara's last lover.
Didn't see him again.
It was like having met
--years afterwards--
Fanny Brawne
full of bounce, or
Degen, the conceited
baker's boy.
No it wasn't.
Rather, it was like having met
Nell Gwyn,
on the way down,
good-natured, losing weight,
still chatting about spaniels.
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