The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Sharlie West

A BOARDWALK KIND OF MIND
 
when all the whirlies and twirlies
are closed and fog
creeps along
the streets and slides
around the drunk on the bench.
It is winter
and the cold sun faces into gray.
At that time
before the bars are open,
before the one restaurant lets its greasy smell
enchant the stragglers,
a door opens
just for a minute
        and everything is bathed
in a silver mist
that shines each object into new
and the drunk on the bench
stirs and catches
the silver.
 
 
PRINTS
 
A white frame house is outlined
by my restaurant window.
Carved doorknobs, shutters tense.
Across the street strides a russet-haired girl,
 
long black tunic, an insouciant hat.
I imagine her years later, forehead creased,
pulling the hands of her children.
 
A man in a felt hat smiles into my window.
My finger traces his edge on the glass.
As I leave, the green leather chair
holds my print.
 
More of me leaks every day
into dust on the mirror ledge,
a tabby chasing down sewers,
woodfire smoke.
 
I look for a room to collect the prints,
an empty room with round corners,
amber lights,
dark mahogany walls,
a weighted urn.


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