Halsted M. Bernard

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 front door swings open;
these words stum­ble out, play­ing drunk.
They cross the street and their pos­ture straight­ens.
As the moon lifts, they head for the next poem.

–Hal­sted Men­cotti Bernard