Knute Skinner: Three Poems

An Interesting Cover

There were two wrought-iron chairs in the park—

more or less in the middle of the park.

I sat down on one, pretending to be absorbed

in the book I held in my hands.

I was only looking at the pages.

 

I was only looking at the pages,

but when a jogger paused,

just long enough to ask me about the book,

I gave it inordinate praise,

and I held it up for her view.

 

Yes, I gave that book inordinate praise,

although—if I speak the truth—

the book was not even mine.

I had picked it up from a bulging basket of cut-rates

in front of a nearby shop.

It did have an interesting cover.

 

Yes, it did have an interesting cover,

but the pages inside?

Well, each page looked very much

the same as another.

I opened the book to show her the title page.

 

And what did that woman do?

Oh, that woman waited a well-timed minute

before she sat down on the second wrought-iron chair.

She sat on the very edge of that chair

as if she was not at all certain

that that was what she should do.

 

I still have that book, and I still haven’t read a word,

but I think—if I tried—I could write my own book

about all the minutes that followed.

 

 

The Bird in the Glasshouse 

The small bird I find in the glasshouse

flies into one pane of glass after another,

then awkwardly flutters to the floor.

It pauses a moment, its dark black feathers

held tight to its body,

and then, taking wing again,

it smashes into another of the glass panes.

 

I enter, sliding the door wide open

and slowly advance

to where the bird is resting in a far corner.

Gently I move to nudge the bird

toward the open door,

but as soon as I put my hand in place,

the bird shrieks as if in pain.

 

I imagine the frantic beating

of its four-chambered heart,

and I back off.

 

The bird responds by crashing

into a near corner,

and rising in haste, it dashes off

to each of the other three corners.

Each time it ignores the only

passage to freedom.

 

I leave it alone to manage as best it can,

but after I do, it flies past the open door

again and again.

The open door, after all,

looks just like another pane of glass.

 

 

Perseverance

Birds of some dirty colour

were singing at the window sill,

and I, feeling no more colourful than they,

sang along with them.

 

That put a stop to their noise,

and off they flew.

 

My eyes followed them into the air

and then onto a scrabby limb

on the aged oak.