We’d arranged to meet under the High Line,
Outside the Whitney; I was running down from
This photo shoot in Chelsea so I had
My clothes stuffed into a hiking backpack
And I was naked except for stilettos.
Felix was coming from choir practice.
He was tall, very thin, ginger-nut hair,
A two-vest situation, naked below the knees.
Hi, I said, glistening from the running;
You must be J.’s friend. Shall we fuck?
The ginger nut didn’t say anything, eyes white.
I stuck out my hand. He looked at my updo. Hi,
He said. I’m in three choirs, did J.
Tell you? One’s way in Harlem, that’s the one
I like best, the other two down here, one at this church
In Tribeca, the other one’s sort of Midtown?
He had this soft, moony Irish brogue.
Two women in actual pillbox hats, tweed suits,
Wheezed past me on their way into the museum.
A bus divulged tourists.
Another wave of day campers, Day-Glo T-shirts.
Wonderful, I said. Shall we fuck on the High Line?
He looked at the Hudson River. I’m—seventeen?