Deus Loci

She has her stockinged feet on my Pumas in a café,
not in Forio d’Ischia, but in San Francisco,
when twenty-four hours means open. The last doughnuts are stale.

The half-frequent streetcars & late littered people finger
Market Street, a cleavage in the misty row-housed hilltops,
and Coit Tower is stiffened on a Pacific-palmed breast.

She says “Frank O’Hara is prosey,” & I say that “he’s
frantic and newsy,” in Lana Turner, but poetry bores her,
unless it’s oracular, afflated, but even then,

“I’d rather play video games, or at least read a book,”
like Erato laughing at a page full of stanzas, worth
a couple of nickels or cheaper, and she horks on ‘em.

At a low window, overlooking a gloomy low street
in an ocean-side city, I drop the topic of poems
and neck with a moon-burnt girl. The sad, cool deus loci.

- Jason Freure