YOU

DENIS JOHNSON

You were as blind to me

as your footprints last Friday,

but I saw you dancing

with that girl who wasn’t me—

because I don’t dance

and laugh in that terrible

style with every stranger.

But you are no stranger.

But you were strange when you were dancing,

and the room turned all yellow

and the glass I was holding

spilled burgundy wine.

I got out by the side door

and I leaned on a box,

and I saw you at the end

of every street,

and in the Flame Inn

I watched the men shooting

eight-ball and mule-kicking

the jukebox till it worked.

On the wall they had many, many

many wooden plaques

bearing humorous sayings

that I will never say

to you even if you begged me,

not even if you came out

of a prison, and begged me.