The power of one word
I have a mental picture
of the poet Frank O’Hara sitting
in his apartment
on a glorious New York summer’s day
He’s wearing a crisp
white shirt and new sneakers
and is nervously tapping his fingers
on his desk in time
to a phrase from Rachmaninoff
that has been running
through his head
ever since he woke
Through an open window
he can also hear the city making
its usual cacophonous dust
he also has an eye on the clock
: the friend who is giving him
the ride to the beach is late
and he has so been
looking forward to the trip
Just then the doorbell rings
and at once
he is overcome
by the sudden surge of love
in his heart and struggles
to get to his feet
fearing he might drown
in the emotion
John Lyons
