Five Poems by James Benger

 

Back Alley Promise 

 

It’s a back alley promise, 

but then aren’t they all? 

 

She stumbles the littered street, 

everything discarded, 

least of which is this life, 

these chances that didn’t  

seem like chances  

until it was all over. 

 

She thinks these things, 

cigarette little more than a stub 

threatening to char her lips, 

and she wonders what it would take, 

what would happen if she were to 

take off a shoe, 

chuck it at the nearest window, 

and listen to the glass rain down, 

thousands of deadly shards of rainbows. 

 

She’d like that, 

it feels like something. 

But she doesn’t. 

She keeps walking down that alley, 

and never turns back.

 

 

Entrance 

 

She sees a shadow of something 

she almost remembers; 

a blinking flash of recognition, 

and she wants to go in, 

just grab the handle,  

swing, all her muscles tensed in action, 

and enter, everything giving way 

to her. 

 

When she sees the spiderwebbed glass 

she wants that control more than anything. 

 

But the cars pass down the  

mostly forgotten road, 

street peppered with sparse houses, 

and she feels the eyes of the world 

anticipating her next movement, 

and that’s far too much pressure 

for the little she has left within. 

 

The sun tells her lies, 

the clouds offer only cloying comfort, 

and no possible action makes sense. 

 

So she balls herself up into herself, 

a flexing, tense amalgamation  

of all that she has accumulated, 

and she puts a boot through the glass, 

unconsciously screaming all the while. 

 

The shattering sings along with her, 

an ode to reclamation. 

 

She opens the door.

 

 

Hooks 

 

She hangs herself from 

the inside of everywhere, 

constant repetition of things 

she’s always known, 

but never wanted in her head. 

 

And these moments, 

imagined and real, 

they permeate everything, 

leaving her so full of holes, 

such a leaky vessel, 

it’s no wonder she’s light enough 

to float to the ceiling of her mind 

and pin herself upon 

anything more substantial  

than the nothings 

she carries in her threadbare pocket. 

 

Sometimes outside of herself 

she can hear a bird call 

or even a child laugh,  

and that almost feels like a sign 

that things could keep rolling 

long enough uphill 

to reach the crest, 

and there she’ll finder herself, 

the easy slide  

into comfort. 

 

But those things never happen, 

not for her. 

So she hangs herself from 

the inside of everywhere, 

gently, loosely swaying in 

someone else’s breeze.

 

 

Abandon 

 

When there’s nothing left 

but to turn up a go, 

that’s what is done. 

 

No need for bags or wishes, 

only what can fit into a pocket, 

only the baggage that  

doesn’t physically weigh. 

 

Nothing is finished, 

everything is left to chance, 

and all the things undone 

are to forever remain that way. 

 

Seeing the world through 

a peephole of determination, 

a tunnel vision of depressing hope, 

the ether cries its demands, 

and the walker determines 

what is to be left unanswered. 

 

Maybe the roof wouldn’t cave, 

but then maybe it would, 

either way, no one will be there 

to witness the outcome.

 

 

magic 

 

she forcibly sees things in clouds 

 

any number of wonders 

deities 

aliens 

illustrations of the kama sutra 

her great aunt 

nothing is off limits 

when imagination 

and more importantly 

hope 

are the only weapons 

 

she forcibly sees things in clouds 

she has to 

because there’s no magic to be found 

anywhere else

 

 

 

James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He is on the Board of Directors of The Writers Place and the Riverfront Readings Committee and is the founder of the 365 Poems In 365 Days online workshop, and is Editor in Chief of the anthology series. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.