Leslie Monsour

(Too sound of mind) The paper table cloth was tastefully bleak, The misty morning light shone on his cheek, And made him look alone and masculine. He talked of Seneca and bad translations, Of modern critics' lightweight observations; A bread crumb rested sweetly on his chin. Behind him, through the glass, the ocean's heave Uncurled against the sand, beside his sleeve, As Eros aimed his toxic javelin. I ducked out of the way, to no avail; It glanced my flesh, injecting quite a cocktail That blurred my sight and caused my head to spin— Never mind the coffee we were drinking, Whatever I said was not what I was thinking. I wanted to become his mandolin, And lie across his lap, a dainty lute, And sing to him and feed him ripened fruit, While light upon the sea turned opaline. Instead, this conversation about art And formal education—God, he's smart! Such rationality should be a sin. The hour was up, he had to run, of course; A handshake and a peck of shy remorse— Outside, the sea was gray and dull as tin; It ruled the shore with tedious discipline.

The boys who fled my father's house in fear Of what his wrath would cost them if he found Them nibbling slowly at his daughter's ear, Would vanish out the back without a sound, And glide just like the shadow of a crow, To wait beside the elm tree in the snow. Something quite deadly rumbled in his voice. He sniffed the air as if he knew the scent Of teenage boys, and asked, "What was that noise?" Then I'd pretend to not know what he meant, Stand mutely by, my heart immense with dread, As Father set the traps and went to bed.

Her pencil poised, she's ready to create, Then listens to her mind's perverse debate On whether what she does serves any use; And that is all she needs for an excuse To spend all afternoon and half the night Enjoying poems other people write.