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 tshirt 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 . . . .”