Lunching with Frank O'Hara on My Deck
       

The Russian sage is sprouting leaves from a brown stem
dormant since November. Weeks ago, I pulled away
the dead, unsure whether it was a perennial,

thinking now the phone can be answered, nobody calling,
only an echo / all can confess to be home and waiting.
The era of the landline is over, though we've found

even better ways of returning home to pain. I don't even need
to invite him over, offer, instead of yoghurt,
a plate of lasagna with extra cheese:

he lands on my deck railing, carried on the wings
of a rock dove, its purple iridescence
an amazement, telling me

my lasagna's the best, just the right amount of ricotta,
reminding me of the preciousness of moss, helping
me see the blooming Pampas grass

is a clowder of cats, bushy tails waving in the April breeze.
How are you feeling he asks. Like the owner of a palace,
I confess, though more than a little distressed.

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Copyright © 2021 Martha Silano All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission