Halsted M. Bernard

I hadn’t thought of you in a while, and
right when I saw the lanky brunette
swivel side­ways in her plas­tic seat
to let some­one out, I thought of you,
your skin and hair and bones,
so taut and shiny. You were the
epit­ome of “girl” in my world and if
I had a crush on you –
    we all did …

These words are mer­ce­nar­ies.
They slouch out­side the back door of this poem,
clouds of frosty air bil­low­ing around their heads,
belts and boots glint­ing in the flood lamp.
When it is time, these words slip inside,
car­ry­ing a box or a knife or an enve­lope.
The hall­way is dim. The recip­i­ent waits.
A noise, half-sigh, half-groan, escapes.
Per­haps noth­ing hap­pened. The …

He puts his head on his hand, elbow beside the yel­low pages. He scans the names and num­bers, paus­ing to smirk at a funny bunch of let­ters. Today the book is of Reno, Nevada. He has never been to Reno, but he pic­tures it like Orinda in July, only flat­ter. Once …