Poetry by Mark S. Borczon

A Convict On A Mule
 
A bald man with an accordion
Witched me on
A back road that was
Lit by moonlight
 
He stepped out of
Nowhere wearing
A Prussian officer’s
Uniform
 
The air smelled like
A loaf of fresh
Bread
 
He looked like
A joyless man
But he danced
As he played
 
I was conflicted
Like a crocus blooming
Through the snow
 
The handgun tucked
Between my belt
And the small of my back
Warmed to the heat
Of my skin
 
His tune was beautiful
Incandescent like cobwebs
Painted ghost white
By dew and moonlight
 
That tune got stuck
In my head
Like the names of
Lovers long gone
 
It followed me home
And hung on for
Weeks, months
A full year
 
What I did with
The handgun
Is not really
Part of the story
 
The music
Would have
Stopped
Eventually
Anyway
 




Starvation
 
Death keeps no food
In the ice box but there are
Pear trees behind his barn
 
Anyone who stops to
Beg a meal is invited
To pick his fruit
 
Eat it and your time
Aint long
 
The earth and sky both
Empty their graves
Exchanging what is prayed for
With what has been lost
 
There isn’t another farm
In walking distance
The only thing that’s clear
Is the choice
 
Starvation is the
Dry chuckle of an old man
Sitting on the porch
In a creaking swing




Bio: Mark S. Borczon is a writer living in Erie, Pa. He used to publish widely in the small press. When not writing he takes care of students in wheel chairs at Edinboro University of Pa's office for students with disabilities. He has three daughters who he loves dearly.