I like seeing him sweat
Now. I like how he leans
On a speaker winded while
Ralph, Johnny, Ronnie,
Rickey, and Mike do
The dances that made them
Their money. I like how
Round Bobby Brown is.
I dream rubbing his belly
The way a bad man rubs
A lamp desperate for
A genie. Everyone who
Rubs the belly of Bobby
Brown ends up pregnant.
Five of his seven kids live.
I think he must be sadder
Than I’ll ever be. You can’t
Replace a child. But what
Do I know? I’m no father,
No husband. When you
Look at me, you can’t tell
The body of someone
I loved rots like any other
Under the Fairview
Cemetery in Westfield,
New Jersey. I’ve joined
The mass. We run up
The arena steps to seats
We won’t use. Bobby
Sounds better than before.
It’s as if he inherited
A gift someone had
To die for him to use.
Copyright © 2025 by Jericho Brown. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 15, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
