I Thought I Saw John Keats Last Night

I thought I saw John Keats last night.

I can’t be sure. We’ve never met.

Half-lit beneath the streetlamp’s light,

his cough was deep and rough and wet.

He had his collar pulled up high.

He shuddered in the misting rain.

I saw his breath. A prayer. A sigh. 

Some music from his teeming brain.

The bookie rushed past to the store.

The music pounded from the car.

The girl ran toward the open door.

A fight called from the corner bar.

The memories that crowd me out.

The one who sobbed and grieved and died.

Indulgences of rage and doubt.

Confessions little, lost, and lied.

I thought I saw John Keats last night.

I can’t be sure. We’ve never met.

Perhaps he went to watch the fight.

Or see the girl. Or pay a debt.
His face was soaked with rain and sweat.

I thought I saw John Keats last night.
The passing phantoms swallowed him.
His eyes were damp and dark and dim.
I caught them in the streetlamp's light.
Time out of joint then put to right.
Intruding vision, set to flight.