“The Ghost Town,” by John Poch

It need not be a desiccated wreck
of boards, completely uninhabited,
adobe bricks regressed to mud, hay. Heck,
it might be verdant and jackrabbited.

The wind might not lament; the gift shop door
could jingle bells, the jasmine candles wafting.
Beyond some seniors at the convenience store,
you might observe a fisherman shoplifting.

But say it’s vacant and bunch grass gray. Then torch
an image, scent, or song from your present life
to reconstruct the step, the stairs, the porch,
the house, town, two men fighting with a knife.

Much like the architecture of a sonnet:
a step, and suddenly you die upon it.

“The Stepladder at Strand Bookstore,” by John Poch

Donne’s compass doubled, braced
with steps beside the poetry,
I crowd the aisle and raise
the readers who would reach to see.

An A myself, I lure
them toward the Auden here. Or help
them see across the store
to Mystery, beyond a shelf

that shields a pretty girl
almost lost in a hardback book.
She gives the winking churl
in PURCHASING a get-lost look:

Your lusts are little rats
who chew good books’ white margins, never
to taste the ink.  Ersatz,
you think your Derrida’s  so clever.

If only I were human…
She wears her jewelry suddenly —
no bookish-looking woman.
The pages applaud, and shouldn’t I?

Although I pine, I’m dead
yet want to open, close, and surprise
like a heart or sunset.
My legs link steps that hope to rise

and fall beneath her body.
Descended angel of ascents
imagine me applauding
your skirt and loving the suspense.

Buy John Poch’s award-winning book by clicking on the cover below.