Two by Kenneth P. Gurney
Port of Angels
I came across the Dead one night
banging their gavels
as if to close the trial of their lives
with some verdict,
but they could not speak
and looked to me for words
though I did not know
if they needed comfort
or restraining orders
or a higher court.
I entered an all night cafe
and the Dead followed me.
I noticed they all wore
red canvas tennis shoes
with laces made of human hair
and they crowded into my booth,
but the waitress never appeared
to offer me a menu or take my order.
So, I walked with the Dead following me
in two files through the forest
to the place where I knew
the local Wicca danced
and sang songs to the moon,
but the Dead learned nothing new
from this empty glade,
though they tried to create
something artistic
from a few empty wine bottles,
some browned pine needles,
a single magpie’s feather
and a litter of cigarette butts.
I inhaled the scent of pine
and cedar and carried them with me
back into town where the lonely streets
lead me and the Dead down to the harbor
and we entered the early queue for the first ferryboat
that would transport me to Victoria
and the Dead to who knows where.
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Idea of Red
Tell me the dreams you had
that included me--
only the good ones.
Only the dreams
that eased your breath
and deepened your sleep.
Tell me how we gathered
acorns from under the big oak
and earned five cents a bucket
back when we were kids
and the world was as tiny,
as huge, as our neighborhood.
Tell me about the day
we played hide and seek,
but you so wanted to be found
that you could not wait
for me to count to one hundred
and tip-toed up behind me.
Tell me about the day
we went to the orchard
and harvested granny smith apples
and found them so good
that we labeled them delicious
and banished the idea of red.