Of Spring, I sing

It is coming painfully slowly this year, isn't it? Summer isn't even on the radar.

I had a brief foretaste of warmth when I visited Yasu in Houston last month, as he was helping set up an exhibit at the MFAH, but all that lovely, ambient warmth re-crystallized back into snow, in my mouth, the moment I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia. And then, this morning, waiting for the 7 Train in Jackson Heights, the wind cut through my pants like a knife.O, for a beaker full of sunburnt mirth, or something...

Maybe a little skin in a speedo.

Now there's an idea for a poem...Astoria Pool
August 12th, 2003

Resting my elbows on the silver rail
curtailing the promenade above the pool,
I count twelve swimmers and one white sail
sailing through the sycamores. As a rule,

I don't pass through this park most mornings on
my way into Manhattan. But today
a chlorine breeze beckons me. I iron
my kakhis very quickly—jump into gray

briefs. I have some trouble picking a tie.
Summer ties look terrible on me
for some reason. I check the knot as I
press the little moon-shaped dial key

on my cellphone. I should have called you.
Unfortunately, I tried to inform
Robert of all the cumulonimbi to
the South, ascending the diving platform.

All Robert wanted to discuss was dicks.
“Fuck the clouds,” he said. “Can you see
any lifeguards? Take some pictures—quick—
before it starts raining, you retard.”