Four Poems
Poetry by Lara Frankena
Bad Biker
The third time police pulled me over on my bike was in Texas. I sailed through three intersections devoid of traffic when the cruiser’s lights flared. I knew I couldn’t out-pedal it so I pulled over and waited.
Three stop signs, the cop says, shaking his head. I was behind you the whole time.
My bicycle doesn’t have rearview mirrors; I apologize, and he admonishes me. You have to be careful around here. We’ve got a lot of Asian drivers.
Capturing the City
Manhattan unfurls sixty storeys below as my boss focuses on the facade opposite. When the light is right, he asks me to hold him. By my belt, he says, reaching behind himself to demonstrate. Both hands. I hold him at arm’s length as he leans out to take the shot.
After, I collapse the tripod on my finger. On the 42nd floor a businessman removes his jacket and takes me by the wrist. I only want a Band-Aid but he sprays me with antiseptic and smiles when I flinch.
Weekends, we shoot interiors. Alone in the office of a German bank’s CEO, I open every drawer of his executive desk. They’re all empty.
Europe on 20 a Day
At the group interview of blonde waitresses for a new Italian restaurant, there is an exceptionally beautiful Austrian brunette. We exchange numbers but I never hear back from les mecs Italiens.
I pause in the backstreet leading to my courtyard. Cent balles pour dix minutes, sans chemise, proposes the man blocking the sidewalk.
Roughly translated, the 1992 equivalent of twenty bucks for ten minutes with my tits out. At the expense of another day in Europe, I keep my shirt on.
By Grand Army Plaza, the Die Was Cast
Apropos of nothing, outside her central London nursery my daughter asks, What language do they speak in your country? An American on a bicycle bursts out laughing.
Once I walked with her father alongside Prospect Park, where on a perfect summer day I lay on the grass until dusk and mosquitoes, reading Baldwin. We rounded Grand Army Plaza, where I ushered in a new millennium as fireworks lit the triumphal arch, then passed the Art Deco Central Library, where I would emerge with Mailer, Didion, and Capote.
On Eastern Parkway hundreds of white address labels littered the sidewalk, Kill all Muslims hand written on each in permanent marker. We slowly proceeded to the Brooklyn Museum while my future husband tore up every single one of them, trailing malevolent confetti in our wake.