We’d arranged to meet under the High Line,Outside the Whitney; I was running down fromThis photo shoot in Chelsea so I hadMy clothes stuffed into a hiking backpackAnd 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 oneI like best, the other two down here, one at this churchIn 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?Fuck. I sighed. Okay. I shiftedMy backpack, the straps were cutting into me.I walked Felix to the 1 train. We parted,He to Harlem for rehearsal, I toMy phone. At that point, Mar was justBreaking up with Roman, the condom king,Could I have him? What happened with J.’s guy,Mar wrote back. Nope. I’m naked belowEighteenth Street, I texted Roman,But he must have been underground, it didn’t send,The line going from blue to green to red.
