Five Poems by Russell Dupont

 

A MUFFLED VOICE

 

A muffled voice mouths a curse,

the wind threatens the trees

and roily clouds advance.

 

“Quiet,” someone hisses.

“They’ll hear you.”

A rustling, then,

a shaft of light

splits the room --

then, darkness.

Nothing remains.

 

And I hear my breath

rattle from my throat . . .

and watch . . .

and listen.

ON THE ROAD

 

And, I crossed the street,

stuck out my thumb

to begin the long hitch

                        back home.

 

It was July, 1960,

and I was seventeen,

dumb and, I thought,

                        in love.

 

Jacksonville.

N. Main Street.

I had been Kerouac —

                        on the road

 

for three or four days,

scuffing along Route 17,

sleeping in the woods

                        begging for water,

 

trying to make it

to Fort Lauderdale.

And then

                        the phone call.

 

“I’ve met someone . . .

and if you come,

my father will . . ..”

                        I hang up

 

and give myself

a new name, “Asshole.”

Then, looking North,

                        I wonder

 

What would

            Sal Paradise

                                    do?

 

PAST OR PROLOGUE

 

Sitting on the bench by the beach,

I mention the old canard

about the Dodo

and how I sometimes feel that

I, too, am flying backwards,

more interested

in where I came from

than in where I am going.

 

Perhaps it’s age,

being overwhelmed

by technology,

by computers

and their bytes;

by lasers, iPhones

and crypto - whatever

that drives me to return

 

to what was my prologue,

and now, in my mind,

nothing more than a shadow play

where my past is a cut-out figure,

a dark silhouette on a blank wall,

reminding me that, the past

cannot become the present.

ONE RED SHOE

 

I knew, the moment I opened

the door to our apartment.

It was not just the quiet

or the absence of the soft music

that always greeted me as I entered.

 

There was an emptiness in the air.

 

I called her name once

and then, again.

At first glance, things looked

as they should. Nothing

appeared changed.

The living room was as neat

                                    as always.

 

In the kitchen, last night’s dishes

had been cleaned and put away.

The small stack of bills on the counter

                        had disappeared.

Peanut, our cat, came over

purring and rubbing against my leg.

 

I called her name once more,

knowing silence would be my answer.

My stomach tightened

and deep inside, I knew.

 

As I entered the bedroom, I paused,

scanning the room and seeing

that everything was in its place.

And then I noticed the small things.

The photo we took on our last cruise;

her comb and hairbrush.

 

Gone.

 

My mouth was dry and my heart

began to pound as I opened the door

                                    to her closet.

 

Staring into its emptiness,

I could feel my head drop,

my shoulders slump.

All that she had left behind

was something she wore

when we last danced.

 

One red high heel shoe.

SO NOW

 

So now, I’ve hit 80

and have been thinking

of how my father died —

42 and stepping from a car —

dead before he hit the ground.

Thinking how that’s not so bad

a way to go -- unless it’s you.

 

Now, I sit on my deck

in the sun and feel

Fall settle in; watch the grass

lose a little of it’s green;

count the dry, browned leaves.

 

A dog yaps somewhere.

 

There was never much

between us -- never much

time spent together doing,

I guess, what fathers and sons

are supposed to do together;

but now, I think of him

slouched in his chair,

head resting on his hand,

dozing, waiting, as I am,

for the ground to rise up.

Russell Dupont, poet, artist, novelist, has published work in the albatross, Spectrum, The I, For Poets Only, The Anthology of South Shore Poets, Re-Side, Oddball, JerryJazzMusician, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rye Whiskey Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, the new post-literate, DADAKU, One Sentence and the Northern New England Review. He is the author of three novels: KING & TRAIN, WAITING FOR THE TURK and MOVIN’ ON. He is also the author of four chapbooks — two non-fiction; UP IN WISCONSIN: TRAVELS WITH KINSLEY and THERE IS NO DAM NOW AT RICHFORD; and two books of poetry: WINTER, 1948 and ESTABLISHING HOME PLATE; and examples of his work have been collected in the Archives of UMass Boston.