Jack
By Jonathan Bennett
Leaves fall and blow around the Jack I've lit
At the top of the drive upon this hill
In hopes of warding away anyone
Familiar who is out there wandering
In the growing—for months more growing—night
From coming up, knocking upon the door,
Slipping through the screen-holes with the chill wind
To slip into bed or creep down the stairs:
A presence reminding what was not said.
Midway
By Jonathan Bennett
It was the barker's voice that drew me in—
Playing a game I should have known was fixed—
With no promises of kewpie doll win.
One voice pricked my ears, made me turn aside
And, what, prove myself worthy of the game
With my girl standing there, cheering beside?
So I played his game, went on all the rides
Until, overstuffed, we made our way home
And searched in the dark for a misplaced prize.
The Return
By Jonathan Bennett
Season's change with screens on the window
And chilly morn wrapped around my mug
As I unpack mothballed coverings
That help me assume my old shape, role
I was sure, once, I'd not don again.
But the fit hasn't changed even if
Something should have while I was away.
Canning
By Jonathan Bennett
Sunset. The air through the screens turns colder,
Chilling the sun-warmed tile beneath my feet.
I set one more upon the shelf against
The lengthening night. Come spring these meager
Stores may seem a feast if winter is mild,
But, all the same, we may grow hungry 'fore
The hard weather begins. Yet I will not
Let what little we have reaped go to waste.
