Frank O’Hara Shaving

He stands with the weight on one foot
Bare-chested, his torso slightly tilted
In the afternoon light of the loft on Lower Broadway
It’s spring, a lovely day outside, April or May
And the rest of us in the room are sitting

Like a dancer he stands, intermittently
Pulling the razor up his face
Not worrying about the lather accumulating
And talks to us at the same time
Without the slightest suggestion of self-consciousness

It’s 1964, I don’t know
For instance, that Frank’s going to die in 1966
In a freak beach-taxi accident
On Fire Island; that reality is full of dirty tricks
And pockets of death and decimation—I’m twenty

And watching him in front of me
...