by Tom Barlow
after Robert Johnson
Suppose one day you have the chance
to throw your own worthless ass
out of the house
and change the locks
and suppose you manage to
thumb a ride out of town with yourself
and the two of you
struggle to make conversation
then which of you is so ashamed
he cranks up the radio
and who lights a smoke,
cracks the vent window
which of you points to the red house
as you pass, where your first girlfriend
now gets beaten daily
who shrugs
who wishes they would swing by
the package store
and which one of you closes his eyes
as you pass the revival tent
which one of you flicks your cigarette butt
into the bone-dry ditch and who
turns on the deer-spotting headlights
to whitewash the night
which of you stops down at the crossroads
and which of you steps out
and nods instead of saying thanks
which of you spits on the fender
as the truck peels rubber in its haste
to leave you there forever.
Tom Barlow is a Columbus, Ohio, USA writer of poetry, short stories and novels. His most recent poems have appeared in Voicemail Poetry, PlainSongs, The New York Quarterly, Proem, Your Daily Poem, The Aurora Review, and other anthologies and periodicals. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.
January House Literary Journal 
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