The Telephone

“its dial a circle
of interminable clicks”
—David Trinidad, “Black Telephone,”
The Best American Poetry 2010

One night we were—
Conversing with some queens
There in Ischia, Limey lushes
As Auden called them, schmoozing
With the local passing trade.

Usually groups of Englishmen—
In blazers and striped socks.
All oppressively self-conscious,
Sitting around the café tables
With nobody to do.

All of a sudden—
A newcomer showed up, flabby,
Debauched, being fêted by a
Group of New York faggots
Who kissed his big fat ass.

It was Chester Kallman—
Auden’s companion sitting there
With a tableful of dull chatty
Literary old fairies, by then
Ischia was getting rather old.