“Elliot, we miss you,” said the man,
he stood surrounded by shining hats–
held his microphone with grace.
And after the sunset you could watch the headlights pass in smokey impressions against the ceiling paint.
As if they were ghosts pacing along the glass archways.
Everyone grew a tear in their eye
and held each other
As the music played on.

Week of meals with Frank O’Hara: