Ohio

A sign by the exit
says Texas Roadhouse
twice. A tube guy dances
on top of the Planet
Fitness. The song playing
from my phone is called
“Ohio.” Last night I danced
with the guitar player’s girlfriend
as the band played it.
She’s always been more
of a toothache than a crush,
but there she was, making me
take a shot of Fernet. That year
all the kids with tattoos
in Cleveland drank Fernet—
and I’m not going to say no
to that hand dragging me
towards the floor, which
was empty for reasons
we don’t need to go into.
That’s the image
I’m taking back home
from Ohio—an empty floor,
“Ohio” roaring, and
the guitarist’s girlfriend
spinning. I pull into
the airport’s rent-a-car
return center and unplug
my phone. The car switches
to radio, and the voice
I hear is my own.