shadow
The shadow
of a cragged tree stands
sharp and complete
across an old apartment building,
though my angle
of vision
blinds me
to the shadow’s tree.
*
pigeon
A pigeon flies toward the cornice
of an old tenement building then
draws up short, startled by something
it finds where it was about to land
and it flaps in the air, in place, in
a flurry of disbelief; then it either
attacks or shoots away
but I don’t notice
because it sticks in my mind
as stuck in midair, in shock,
unable to square
with a truth
I can’t
see.
*
deli
The royal blue
deli awning, dripping
with rain, says:
Cold Sodas, Newspapers,
Sandwiches, Hot Coffee, Beer,
Play Lotto Here.
The cramped, over-lit, under-cleaned
deli itself
crunching these commonplaces
together in
the dark
reflection of
my deli-stocked
face.
*
mirror
The acoustic guitar
hanging on the café wall
behind me
hangs halved in a mirror
on the far wall
before me, a mirror
in whose frame is tucked
a curled, faded photograph
of a smiling young woman, a mirror
crossed by cropped reflections
of staff and customers
coming and going
until it empties
in the night.
Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit www.markbelair.com
