Kate Bernadette Benedict
WHEN I AM OLD
When I am old, if I still see,
I'll power up my lectro-book,
enlarge the letters with a click
and read some backlit poetry.
Faithful words, familiar lines
from paper books of years ago
will pass the time at Pointed Pines
or Haven Bay. The screen will glow
and incandescence seize my face.
If eyes be clear and mind intact,
I'll find solace in a bitter place;
I'll find plenty in the midst of lack.
One man loved my company,
no man loved my pilgrim soul:
though griefs may pierce my reverie,
if I can read, I'll still be whole.
And if somehow I happen on
these homely lines on that bright page,
I'll nod in vast contentment then,
however crimped I am by age.
WHAT GOES AROUND
These two accuse us: we have dinged their car.
You parked too close; I bumped them with my door.
What once was new and perfect bears a scar.
We two stay unresponsive. Suspects are.
But dodging blame just makes them rant the more.
These two accuse us: we have dinged their car.
At least there are no feathers here, or tar,
or witnesses whose laser eyes might bore.
What once was new and perfect bears a scar.
These two will not back off; they want to spar.
They want us sorry. Their aspersions roar.
These two accuse us: we have dinged their car.
They make us scrutinize the ugly mar
and screech that there is nemesis in store.
What once was new and perfect bears a scar.
They mean that what goes round on this blue star
comes back around again. Portentous lore!
What doom awaits us then, who dinged this car,
who spoiled its new perfection with a scar?
ATLANTIC CITY IDYLL
Come bet with me and be my luck
and bring me gimlets tart with lime.
We'll chase the wily holy buck
and toss the dice and sneer at time.
And we will dazzle in our clothes
and neon dazzle us as well.
We'll strike a sleek and moneyed pose,
we'll yell a blithe, ecstatic yell
until at last we've squandered all,
shot the wad and maxed the cards,
until we've quaffed till dawns appall
and hoarse are velvet-throated bards.
Come stroll with me and be my muse
of feckless hope and vain desire.
On the boardwalk the huckster woos
and Armless Annie tongues her lyre.
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