Coming home drunk
(As I only rarely do)
One night, I heard a man
Talking to no one like a reliable friend,
Muttering about having his feelings hurt
And I knew who he was (or at least a kind of who:
Born with no opinions but strong opposition,
Always told, “Hey, you want a revolution?
Roll your own,” and laughed off,
Passed between people and ideas and loyalties
Like a stolen beer.)

I felt the need to be elsewhere, but the street
Dispassionately pressed him and me
Between two buildings.
I didn’t want to catch his eye,
But he caught mine,
I couldn’t look away from his face,
Twisting like he wanted to say
Something else, and then
There came a stillness.

I stared at him.
I’ll admit it, but
He was just so ragged and tough, like
A cardboard box
With bullets inside,
And okay, maybe I was a little scared.
(I was paralyzed, stuck in his eyes
Like the rooms of castles
Where no foot has tread,
Where ghosts sigh and whisper;
And outside there are signs
Saying “danger: do not climb
You will fall”)

Then something broke.
He looked away,
And whispered in a crumbling voice
“You are no one, I am alone,”
And then I knew he was.