This is mine. Please don’t read.

No one knows that I am here.  No one knows that I am speaking.  This is a good thing, to have secret space, for someone who is paid to exist for someone else, essentially, to be young and vibrant and healthy and always these things.  (This is an exhausting profession.)  I could jump in right now, but I won’t.  I’ll leave the more fantastic stuff for later.  I want to quote Frank O’Hara, but I can’t find the right poem.  I know where it is in my parents’ large house in the suburbs; in a large closet, an old notebook from college, on a three-hole punched sheet of paper, boxed in by my sharp pencil.  “I haven’t shown you the most beautiful things in my lives yet.”  This is so rough.  When I Google it, I get “Song (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!)” and “Meditations in an Emergency”, both fantastic, but not what I am looking for, as usual.

While searching for the correct thing (I think I have found it in “Memory of my Feelings”, but no), I find a posting on a poetry website written by one M.S.

“Dear Frank O’Hara,
Are you alive?
I’ve read your poems and know that you are.
But are you available in person?
I’d like to ask for more poems…
that’s all.”

This is perhaps the best poem I have read in quite some time.

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