The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Bruce Bennett

THE CARETAKER

That injured mouse you carried in a box:
what pity you displayed. And when it died
how sorrowful you were. And how you cried.
I tried to comfort you. I was perplexed.

I did not have an inkling I was next.


THE ONE YOU′RE WITH

It wasn′t the time
and it wasn′t the place
and it wasn′t the voice
and it wasn′t the face

And it wasn′t the one
who had driven him mad
but a gift is a gift
and he took what he had

Yes, a gift is a gift
(though it′s ever so slight)
and it′s dark when it′s dark
and the night is the night

And the night is the night
but it′s ever so long
when the place and the face
and the voice are all wrong

When the time′s never right
and the day breaks in vain
and the gift′s not a gift
(though it′s given again

And again and again)
since the nights are so long
when the places and faces
and voices are wrong


STRANGER

He knows his power; wields it. Silent. Grim.
Aloof. They know he knows them. None knows him.

                          *

Except for her. She senses, feels the cold.
Offers him warmth. Establishes a hold.

                          *

All guns are blazing. One man stands alone,
and keeps on standing. Then rides off, alone.

                          *

The bar stays empty. She sits. ″Just one more.″
She sits. She waits. Her eyes fixed on the door.

                          *

Somewhere he still is riding. Sun goes down.
Trouble′s ahead. He grunts. Another town.


THE WALKER

There is a man who haunts our town,
who walks its sidewalks, up and down,
wearing a scowl, or else a frown.

He talks to no one; dressed in black,
he skulks and sulks his sullen track,
eyes to the ground. We see his back,

And think, Poor guy, he needs a friend.
Someone to listen, who might mend
his melancholy mood, but end

Up doing nothing. No one will.
He′ll die, and he will haunt us still.
We′ll feel his passing shadow′s chill.