“The Canyon” and “At Recess
By Mark Belair
The Canyon
This row of old, soot-blackened buildings
holds dark despite being directly
struck by sun, each
Structure rising, unusually, to the same height,
their cornices creating a single,
striking skyline
While each front presents a different face—
some stern, some welcoming,
some unsure;
Fronts that reveal nothing about
what may be going on
inside, a refusal
Reinforced by each building’s contradictory signs—
some clearly ancient, some perhaps still
pertinent;
Yet despite—or due to—
this ambiguity,
we feel
Compelled down the winding canyon
these weathered warhorses
cut; drawn
To decode, as if urban geologists, the city’s
ever-building, ever-borne, ever-broken
dreams in stone.
_____________________________________________
At Recess
Church bell peals
leap from a steeple
and ring along with the cries
of schoolyard children, the
peals and cries
soaring into
the blue dome of the autumn sky
then rounding it to return
as one composition, as the sacred music
of pagan joys.
*
The ivy glints green
beneath a sugarcoat of snow, green
bright as the eyes of a peeking-outdoor child
While the water towers
atop the apartment buildings
take snow sprinkles like ice cream cones,
The dizzy white confection
falling, collecting, promising—once
the park hills are buried in the expected two feet—
To offer every
snow-day city child
a sweet country ride.
*
Only kids run in boots, the clump
of hard rubber on the playground
Heralding their approach to school,
boots hefted like weights from home,
The children all cross-clomping then
arriving in classrooms where they tug
Off their burdens and become—
before
Donning
teacher thinking caps—
Their light-footed, bareheaded
selves.
*
The white brick school remains
dark, the early sun catching but
One corner top-floor window, no
students there yet, no teachers
Or even custodians, just
an empty classroom
Pierced, perhaps, by a sunbeam
creeping across the linoleum floor,
Edging over the wooden desks,
climbing up the chalkboard, the
Bare coat pegs, the posted artwork,
then finally
Hitting the high black-and-white clock marking
the hours before the noisy children arrive and
The hours they quietly, if restlessly, reside and
the hours after they depart for the day to resume
Play then succumb to dream-chocked sleep
while ever oblivious
To the clock’s quiet
persistence, this most
Sly, most challenging, most
unforgiving of teachers.
_____________________________________________

Author of seven collections of poems, Mark Belair’s most recent books are two works of fiction: Stonehaven (Turning Point, 2020) and its sequel, Edgewood (Turning Point, 2022). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times, as well as for a Best of the Net Award. Please visit www.markbelair.com