It’s a jungle out there, Frank.
I know, Henri. Was it you
who brought all this humid
weather over from Brooklyn?
There are tigers roaming Central
Park. Don’t go there at night without
a flashlight, a pitchfork and a net.
They say you left a naked girl
on a divan, smack in the middle
by that phallic obelisk, you brute.
Don’t worry about the girl, Frank,
the saucer-eyed lions look after her.
Say, how long is your lunch hour?
It’s fluid as a Dali dial, Henri. Museums
have their midday naps. Hell, all that
time they cram in between the entrances
and exits. Nobody’s clockwatching
in Antiquities. You fancy a papaya
and a jambalaya from Juliet’s Corner?
Papaya? Jungle juice sounds just up
my street. I’d like to do you in oils, Frank,
peeking through a bush on Seventh Avenue.