Halston

He kept his middle name, the pick of   the lot,

he thought, and mispronounced himself: Hall-stun.

At Bergdorf’s he acquired an accent and referred

to himself   in the third person, every bird he flayed

wrapped in Ultrasuede. He lit a True with a True,

smeared his hirsute muse with sequins. There were air-

kisses, Capote’s new-cut face at Studio 54, that Baccarat

flute of ejaculate. Never too late, he ordered in

meat and potatoes, and a trick.

He called it “dial-a-steak, dial-a-dick.” He appeared

on The Love Boat, Halstonettes in tow,

maybe the high, maybe the low, watermark.

When his pupils betrayed him at work, on came the shades.

And a well-cut blazer, paranoia. He had signed away

the rights to his name, for options. When he tried

to reclaim them from the conglomerate,

he excused himself to the toilet, just a sec —

white dust on a black turtleneck.

His block started to look a lot like sickness.

Even his beloved orchids, the sickness.

Just like that, the eighties were gone.

New York, New York, the eighties were no one.