Daido Moriyama, Stray Dog, Misawa, Aomori, 1971 Robin Stout / Who Waits Who Runs You say I am too happy to be a poet. You, you ubiquitous you. Floating in and out, in and out of my poems like clouds in a blue, blue sky. You say my pain is more frightened lamb than wounded lion. That I am low on ink. And, besides I don’t dress right. That’s what you know. I am the guy on Atlantic Avenue with apricot hair. I am the swollen river, the fifteen- dollar sandwich. I am the woman in head-to-toe black on a coral street. I am the car stuck in traffic. I am the dog who waits who runs up behind you and sinks yellow teeth into the meatiest part of your thigh. (c) Robin Stout 2011