Modeling Poem #2

Frank O’Hara, Poem

I work for a museum but now this is my lunch hour,
So I just go around in the city. This is supposed to be my recreation.
It is a hot summer, 85 degrees. The sun is shining just like the luminous neon advertisements.

While taking off my jacket I notice some construction workers down Madison Avenue,
Wearing their usual helmets with many different colors: red, yellow, silver…
I have seen similar hats in a San Francisco fashion boutique- but fashion is bizarre and capricious

I feel like traveling by subway, so I descend to the station, then I make up my mind and go up.
I cannot see many people down the avenue as it is 12:15 PM of an average Tuesday.
A Negro cab driver is getting on his car, he seems to be delighted- he must have had a good client.

This cab driver reminds me of LeRoi, once we were shaking hands and many people were shocked.
A group of laughing Chicanos is approaching me, giving the avenue a funny atmosphere.
Maybe they have lunch break too. I wonder what Paul Claudel may think about them.
But alas, I have already finished my cheeseburger and drunk my Coke and I have to go back to work.
Will life pass away as quickly as my lunch hour?

1958