It was hot in Nashville.
My hair was up.
I found you in the History section,
took your hand from the shelf and
dragged you back into Poetry:
"Read these. In order. They tell a story."
I watched your face change shape
eyes, lines, sometimes your mouth made word-shapes.
Your cheeks got red every time
you read the word fuck,
or another description of a whore.
After five poems, you looked up at me
like I'd just told your future
and you said, "I was this guy."
I explained to you that the difference is,
you got it out of your system
before you were fifty.
Thank God.
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