AN APPETITE FOR MILES
For Matthew
I have
the Saturday night set
for
breakfast on Friday in my silent way.
Someone
knows how to cook the basics
and
I almost taste the color—
kind
of cool and born of blue.
It’s
as filling as an Egyptian queen
who’s
done waiting for her prince to come—
spiced
like young girls from the mountains,
sketched
by a Spaniard. So I try
the
Friday set around midnight—
full
of Bud’s bells and Porgy’s Bess
but
light and hollow as a horn.
All
that’s left is that very rich, cool,
very
peaceful cup of bitches brew.
I’ll
tell you what it is later. Shhh.
Mark J. Mitchell
MORPHY’S
WATCH
For Morphy a game of chess is a sacred duty.
—Adolf
Anderson
He was left
untouched by a useless hand
like
some forward pawn on an unmarked board.
The
room remains empty, dust drifts like sand.
When
did he enter this game? No one asked
him
to play. He adjusts a shadeless bulb.
Things
stay dark. He can see how this began—
He
enters this room. He thinks it’s the last
door
he’ll open. He thinks there’s reward
just
beyond it. He wants this game annulled.
Mark J. Mitchell
MACHO
MAN
The
man who was Thursday stopped by last Tuesday
to
perform his ugly, simple office.
Each
hole was perfect—the weight of his fist
enough
to pierce a wall, the earth. He preyed
on
solidity. He tracked down unmarked
surfaces.
Any enemy would know
where
he walked at all times. He broke windows
just
to step on glass. He liked the stray barks
of
half-wild dogs. Less a man, more a force—
a
personal storm followed him around—
it
was his mobile home, it warmed him
when
the sun was too bright. You liked the course
of
his duties to bring him by. The sound
of
his day was crisp. You’re glad to see him.
Mark J. Mitchell
EDITING
ANGELS
Their
tears
punch
holes in pages
of
various Holy Writ.
Knife-sharp
feathers
cut
off chapters—they fly
away
like dandelions.
There
is no intent here—
They
don’t mean to confuse.
It’s
their job.
Mark J. Mitchell
WHARF
HAIKU
On a
white hydrant
gumdrops
in rainbow order
lighting
up gray fog.
