(For Art)
Two lights, a K-mart, dog-leg-left, and there you are.
A tour of sorts with friends of yours, a joint
that's smoked with several more,
and later on, when I look up,
uncomfortable at being high
in front of someone else's sons,
a soft, concerned attentiveness
you try to hide as you direct me to my bed,
a pumped-up quilt of reds and blacks, a Mondrian,
hand-sewn, you say, by Roz, your friend.
The room,
of course, is your room:
the iridescent gun-blue skis,
the too-few books, the dark, cascading
window ferns, the cat that bounds up
on my chest with four soft paws and falls asleep,
not caring that I'm someone else, someone new
who’d wandered in, who meant
no harm, who'd dream all night
of roaming through another's house,
then get up early, say good-bye, and drive out
past the dog-leg-left and empty mall
as though he had another life.