The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Audrey Henderson

Mr. Peterson's Field Guide

I've had my share

of the orange plaid settees,

the mildewed cigarette air,

the nylon sheets. Nights,

as I drew pistils and spathes

in the Rob Roy Motorcourt,

the Matterhorn Lodge, I could

hear car chases through the walls.

Then there were raunchy

giggles and fumbled keys,

but these were minor distractions.

Worse were the tired salesmen

hungry for talk. I perfected excuses,

escapes—there'd be too many

questions for an old man

with a suitcase full of flowers

and I could never convey

the urgency, the need for

freshness, or the terrible way

the petals collapse.

St. Kilda Sunday        

The Reverend 

tells us of kind Jesus                                                                          

with the sweet gaze

and a medicine

that cures the itch.

It is true that he seems kind

although he forbids us

to tend our animals

on Sunday and I wonder

whether I can love him

more than I love

the wild thyme

where I lay my head

before I knew his name.