Robert K. Johnson
Bio Note: A now-retired Professor of English, I can now spend more mornings a week working in new poems in my home outside of Boston, MA and aim for a new collection of my poetry.
Lost and Found
Ahead on my sidewalk path a tourist—so annoyed even his beard seems vexed— stands too lost to take another step; and would rather I be of help than to tell him he is all of us.
One Kind of Renewal
The older I get, the more often I quickly walk downtown, reach our high school hangout and—before I can go inside— Hoppy, waiting for me, rushes out the door and says let's go to the record store, check out the new releases— and sure enough we find the latest Woody Herman or Stan Kenton 78s that our hot hands carry to a listening booth—where we let the blaring trumpets take us someplace beyond this day or year or any year.
No matter where I move to, town or suburb or city, I see, just down the block, a house exactly the same as my boyhood home, though now the windows are always dark. Yet, even so, I see my mother, father and sister lurking inside that house— all of them drained pale-cheeked by the deep depression that clung to them like a cureless disease day after week after month until, with open arms, they welcomed death. I know, too, while they listlessly drift from room to silent room, they wait to hear the doorbell ring and then, after letting me in, lock the door behind me.
©2020 Robert K. Johnson
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