Sitting across from the administrator,
Once, all those hopeless in hidden folder poems intervened between the printer into supervisorial hands.
But laid on degreed in literature, social work, and papered hands. Appreciated, respected as her superior said,
“This, your dilemma, sounds like Robert Frost’s crossroads.”
“No, Robert Frost was a fork, Robert Johnson is crossroads.” Half out the door.
“You know…oh, here’s his, listen.”
In days later,
“Guess what I heard, Clapton did it on the radio!”
(Hold on to that ms boss man, and hear this)
It’s tan, sunny, and quiet. There’s no Rolls Royce, suit and tie, and I’m tired. Wide eyed like a sundial under a shade tree. It used to be. I leaned. And even had the pen to sign. I forgot my name. And maybe I waited in the dark on a fork.