so mysteriously sad, and you can name them all,
but some lyrics survive to save your soul’s genitals—.
Imagine that one classic song knew your name,
and it knew you were dying and it came to your bed, and you
breathed out your soul into its arms like a new infant.
The Hall of Rashes
I went there to use the men’s room since none was closer.
I passed displays of diaper rash and shingles, second-stage syphilis,
hives and measles. The older I get the more I have to pee
and I get into situations like this. Poor Job pictured with weeping
carbuncles, do you think I liked looking at that? And these
other guys in the men’s room wanted to show me their rashes,
and me to show mine. And they wanted my phone number.
Steven Huff is the author of two books of poetry, most recently More Daring Escapes; of a forthcoming story collection, It Just So Happened; and editor of Knowing Knott: Essays on an American Poet. He teaches in the Solstice Low-Residency MFA Program at Pine Manor College and lives in Rochester, New York.