A.M. Juster

Poet, Translator, Essayist

Weldon Kees In Mexico

He hardly ever spoke; we thought his name

was Robinson and watched him from afar

for fear of yanqui guile. When he first came

to town, he played piano at the bar

some Friday nights—jazz riffs that blended

into weary talk—though soon he grew

more scarce. He drank more and the concerts ended,

which is what exile and tequila do.

 

One day his landlord said he didn’t know

if Robinson had skipped out on his rent.

We kept an eye out while the tide was low

and poked around the canyons where he went

out walking, but a search was never done.

We had no reason, and desired none.

 

(2002 Nemerov Sonnet Award Finalist)

                    © 2017 A.M. Juster