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Poem	Eighty-one degrees a record high for the day which is not my birthday but will do until the eleventh of June comes around and I know what I want: a wide-brimmed Panama hat with a tan hatband, a walk in the park and to share a shower with a zaftig beauty who lost her Bronx accent in Bronxville and now wants me to give her back her virginity so she slinks into my office and sits on the desk and I, to describe her posture and pose, will trade my Blake (the lineaments of a gratified desire) for your Herrick (the liquefaction of her clothes) though it isn't my birthday and we're not still in college it's just a cup of coffee and a joint the hottest thirtieth of March I've ever
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