Last night by the bar
before the speakers blew out
and we all moved on to the next thing—
autumn, pushy and unselfconscious,
and everyone drinking John Dalys.
Are you listening?
Last night, you could say, I had this dream:
Me, you, not-you, and someone famous at the kitchen table.
Someone famous calls me a power bottom.
This kitchen is none of ours, in none of our houses,
and the people in other rooms are doing things
we may have done or may yet do with them.
You offer someone famous an apple;
I slide him the knife and cutting board.
No, he’s a top, says not-you,
for sure, and looks at—not me—
for something like confirmation.
You shrug. Shrug?
You shrug, not knowing.
Not knowing—someone famous slices the apple,
laughs, talks to anyone else.
Not-you says either,
That’s love, or,
That isn’t . . .