(Inspired by Frank O’Hara’s poem “The Day Lady Died” )

It’s 10am on a Tuesday, two days after Christmas, 2016

and I’m just now waking up,

which is different for me

but I had a lot of Chianti the night before

at Isaac’s place

Seryn made some coffee around 11,

I put too much cream in my hazelnut blend

and drank it far too quickly

while looking over a present from Cody,

LUNCH POEMS by O’Hara,

it’s been on my wishlist for months

and he knows how much I care for Frank,

I went to the bank at noon to deposit my check,

there was no time before the holidays,

the teller’s name was Linda (no relation to Miss Stillwagon)

I had never seen her in there before

and she asked me if I ever went by my middle initial “G”

I drove back home

listened to Bastille and read more O’Hara,

which I haven’t done enough since my trip to Boston

at 1:30 Desmond and Cody both messaged me

she was dead, strangled by her own bra

and bathed in moonlight

I paused the music

I remembered sitting in front of our old television

watching her in the white dress and hood,

I was 6 and my father had just come back

from California, the second time,

he’d shown me the first three films

before he took me to the theater

to see the newest episode