Poetry

Henri Rousseau Meets Frank O'Hara

Eddie Gibbons

 

It’s a jungle out there, Frank.

 

I know, Henri. Was it you

who brought all this humid

weather over from Brooklyn?

 

There are tigers roaming Central

Park. Don’t go there at night without

a flashlight, a pitchfork and a net.

 

They say you left a naked girl

on a divan, smack in the middle

by that phallic obelisk, you brute.

 

Don’t worry about the girl, Frank,

the saucer-eyed lions look after her.

Say, how long is your lunch hour?

 

It’s fluid as a Dali dial, Henri. Museums

have their midday naps. Hell, all that

time they cram in between the entrances

 

and exits. Nobody’s clockwatching

in Antiquities. You fancy a papaya

and a jambalaya from Juliet’s Corner?

 

Papaya? Jungle juice sounds just up

my street. I’d like to do you in oils, Frank,

peeking through a bush on Seventh Avenue.