Saturday, September 4, 2021

Saturday at Home with Frank O'Hara

The prince's cough could tell the time.
The princess predicts a short and tragic life
For herself at last
As if there's some reward attached ...
So goes it on the most depressing holiday of the year! 
Domesticity is bliss, but, then, so is ignorance,
And no one seems to want a part of that.
Everything gets lost inside the sofa: 
Socks, game pieces, the boa —
Yet it too will be wheeled into the street
For the Mexican families who circuit weekly.
The new mid-century styles do seem delicious though —
But then everything must be new
Except for us of course (that would be hideous)
Yet isn't that the master strategy
Behind the rubber tree, where well-disguised
Like any true poet
The day shadow crosses the golden walls?
The green iguana eats his blueberries in late sun,
And there's nothing left for us to do
But watch the dragons fuck
As the cat squeezes his lids and offers his paw
That we can sit still for more than a moment.
Soon things will be good again:
The elderly will be gutted by machine guns,
The smell of marijuana will infest every crack in the villa,
Peace will finally be made with the sofa,
And the negotiations over the giveaway bag,
While contentious, will be successful,
In that no one's truly satisfied.
I've felt love, meanwhile, in every gesture:
Dessicating carrots, boiling rags, turning worms,
Though still it hides behind the baroque pearls
Of the Japanese screen, in its modesty, always waiting 
For a later reveal, in the future where there's hope.