For Grace, After A Party

    You do not always know what I am feeling. 
Last night in the warm spring air while I was 
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t 
        me, it was love for you that set me 
      and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of 
strangers my most tender feelings 
                                                 writhe and 
bear the fruit of screaming.  Put out your hand, 
isn’t there 
              an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside 
the bed?  And someone you love enters the room 
and says wouldn’t 
                           you like the eggs a little 

different today? 
                       And when they arrive they are 
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather 
is holding. 

Frank O’Hara


Times – Frank O’Hara provides the poetry of Mad Men

Comments are closed.