Andy Warhol
and
his frizzled hair —
white —
like the cigarette
he makes a fish face for,
stands under the golden awning
at exactly 2:06 p.m.
five days of seven
at 301 Fashion Ave.

Cross armed and subdued
wrinkled and beaten —
his white crocodile skin shoes
always sparkle.

I tell him
Hey! You’re that Andy Warhol?!?
I like your soup cans.

He replies
No, that’s not me.
We’re all Andy Warhol
sooner or later.