I want to be like Frank O'Hara

but I’ve never leaned unhurriedly
on a club doorway listening
to Billie Holiday. Most of my time
in this city I’ve been a mother and I know
I’ve spent too much time in Sainsbury’s
Dalston branch even if it does
have its own inimitable vibe
and a huge range of root vegetables.
My own roots sink deep in the garden and
I can’t bear to leave
in case I miss a single bloom
or one of those odd powder-blue butterflies
passing through on its way to Hackney Marshes.
I swing in the hammock to the echo of police sirens,
but I’ve never leaned in a club doorway,
my poems in my pocket like Frank.
My books are stuffed with shopping lists
and I can’t believe that’s Frank.
Although once at 11 a.m. looking
for the new GP surgery in Green Lanes,
I stuck my head in the doorway
of a Turkish men’s club and they scattered
from their chess like leaves.
I felt a bit dangerous then, like Elvis in ’56.
I think Frank would have liked it,
the way one brave man approached me slowly,
his palms of his hands held out as if
he was about to catch something.