You Again?
with thanks to Randy Newman
You suppose because
you’re you and not Keats
(who never wore a scarf)
that every stroll will end
with a piano falling from
a window, because you’re
you and not a Bedouin
with blankets for a bed
and a needle through which
he’ll never lead his camel
all the way to Wichita,
not Simon and his amazing
bear dancing for dinner
in Times Square as the debt
rises and the restaurants
empty, the tabletop tips
contrary to all advice
a clutter of last sawbucks
though not yours, since
you’re you, a friend of
Whittaker Chambers,
that faint spray of spit
whenever he spoke, though
it isn’t enough to feel
callous, or was it callow,
always writing your slogan
in soap on mirrors,
“I could have been great,”
when all you’ve ever been is
exceptional, except today,
dancing beneath the piano
with a catcher’s mitt
open above your head,
the bear lumbering against
traffic to make his date
with weight: he’ll save you;
he always does.