72 nd St.
by John Harris
A summer sublet. 72nd St.,
Three stories up. An ancient railroad flat,
Filled with listing bookcases, stifling heat,
Uneven linoleum, grimy plants, a cat.
Days were clerical — any job I could get —
Typing business envelopes, answering phones.
Nights were The Fire House — a t–shirt drenched in sweat,
Dancing at 3 a.m. to the Rolling Stones.
The City was that bench in a park,
A mattress on the floor, without a sheet.
The rasp of another man’s face against mine in the dark,
The radio whispering “Angie, don’t you weep . . . .”