The day’s almost over and I’ve put on
my last clean shirt. Can’t leave the apartment
till I write a poem. Adam calls to tell me
he met Jane Freilicher and aren’t I jealous?
I just want to write a fucking poem.
But he goes on about JA and Shapiro
and those collages: “Remember what your
analyst said? People don’t know what to do
with those pieces of paper.” Later I meet
Adam at MOMA for a showing of The Last
Clean Shirt and apparently Alfred Leslie is there
but I’m hungry and Adam’s snoring and
there are too many speakers and not enough
film. We cross Fifth Ave singing Bad Romance.
I go to a birthday party and drink too much
Prosecco and when I get home I pass out
with the lights on and the curtains open
and I didn’t even write a goddamn word.