“Sherry”, “The Stray”, “Matinee”, “Schoolboys” and “Idle Fun”
By Mark Belair
SHERRY
Sher-er-ry!
I lip-synched from the center of the linoleum rolled out
in my buddy’s backyard
for a neighborhood show and dance,
my Four Seasons costume
my Confirmation suit.
Performance done, but with random verses
still circling my head,
I drifted to the grass and watched the other kids’ acts—
magic, dance, arm wrestling—
while dusk descended
in an illuminating way, silhouetting
not us all
but us each,
this lucid twilight
the dim dawn, it seemed, of our being alone
and waiting for the day when
a boy or girl Sherry—
nobody here, for we were all nobodies
to the ones we’d soon be dancing with—
would see our twelve-year-old,
nobody self
as a somebody and—
as the Four Seasons lyrics
kept imploring
in my hopelessly hopeful head—
Come out!
to help make us ourselves.
THE STRAY
There is probably a simple explanation
for the left-foot high-heeled shoe—
patent leather, tan—
alone on the sidewalk.
Dropped from a bag?
Its right-foot partner, jostling
along inside, wondering
where it went?
Or maybe a dog
got hold of it at home, trotted
out, then saw
a squirrel or bird.
Maybe it was tugged off
and hurled down
during an argument,
then left
in commitment
to the hobbling owner’s fury.
Maybe
I imagined it.
For it isn’t there
when I return.
Of course, there are countless
other possible scenarios
for its fleet, forlorn, uncannily
lifelike
arrival and
disappearance.
MATINEE
It wasn’t supposed to rain
but did, so we ducked
into a theater and saw
the second half of a movie
that made us try to imagine
the first, the end
not a resolution, but—
since we couldn’t
stay and see the start—
an intriguing clue
we used to construct
conflicting theories
of how it all
began, something
we speculated about
with plenty of fancy
but not enough facts
to prove, to each other, our points
while walking through fog
dense as the past.
SCHOOLBOYS
A wiry boy looks up, skinny
arms extended, hands spread,
his pose
pure expectation.
Then he bags the ball, no sweat,
what appeared to be coming at him—
on this soon to vanish boyhood day—
exactly what arrived.
*
From across the street, the carefree talk
of a coursing class of middle school boys
blends like a mid-range gurgling stream:
no highs, no lows, just a passing tone of
pure median, the boys not the screechers
they once were nor yet the gruff rumblers
they’ll soon become, so seen by parents
and teachers and, most of all, themselves,
as meanwhile things with the latitude
to let the forming of a firm identity
lay ahead, the task of today
simply to anchor, in each other,
buoyant memories of floating
in a flow of boys all sharing
this brief, warm, watery
moment in-between.
IDLE FUN
The engine of an oil truck
idling outside
trembles the floor
so subtly
I don’t even notice
until one task is done
and the next not yet begun
and the stillness
between these
dour duties
boogies
with its welcome, gaudy thrum.
*
Through the flat bottom of a juice glass
of pinot noir
I startle to see what seems
a huge, crablike creature lurking
deep in a wine-dark sea, a bottom-feeder
stilled, hungry, alert for passing prey.
Even as I snap that impression
I know it’s just my hand
cradling the glass
but I don’t let that savage crab
and my observing mind
reconnect
but strive to keep alive
this division
of watcher and creature
until I can’t sustain the split
and everything snaps
back—though
with a sobering, self-wondering
aftereffect.
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 http://www.markbelair.com
