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  • {Mary Stone}


    i dance hand-in-hand with the wet sidewalk,

    play drunken chess peeking through the slats,

    hitch a skirt up high across black jelly clouds,

    pull the string and she is mary stone.

    i remember her younger: an unexpected visitor,

    2 a.m. before a mid-term, she complains of insomnia,

    says a good rogering might do the trick…


    now she’s older, she keeps bar, strip joint on the corner,

    spotlight’s on the goddess while she pours beer for

    unshaved ghosts of men face down with the blind robins

    bragging of young’ns they’d nailed

    while out back children smoke Luckies

    and play simon says in staccato.


    she is alone on a bridge

    in a silent mist, her eyes locked,

    swimming, lingering on in pale desolate blue.

    they’re coming for her,

    red light refracts thru a shot glass,

    hope on a rope in the home of spirit’s tragic lantern.

    beat it out like jazz, ball in the jack,

    once around the park and we were seriously seventeen,

    chop shops to smoke hotels,

    girders, rivets, bends where there used to be curves,

    our first-born conceived as a dirty french novel

    under the pulsing porch.



    About The Author

    Michael Benson
    Michael Benson is a writer and editor originally from Chili, New York. Mr. Benson is the 1976 winner of the Hofstra University Poetry Prize given by the Academy of American Poets. In 2016, Michael was named a Wheatland-Chili Graduate of Excellence. His goal as a poet is to isolate and capture the freeze-frames that provide the most economical and accurate extrapolation to the gestalt, droplets of consciousness that betray the entire stream.