Select Poems
Bob McAfee
Drive, King of the Werewolves, Almost Alice
Drive
The long black car is waiting at the corner, idling slow.
As yet he hasn’t noticed me, I haven’t far to go.
If only I can make it home before my number’s drawn,
just one more time to see your face in the comfort of the dawn.
The sun is still in hiding as the limo starts to move.
The driver and his passenger have nothing left to prove.
They are empty in the spirit, the flesh is off the bone.
The casket’s open in the back, the driver’s on the phone.
I’m hiding in the shadows as I see them gurgling past.
I see your window dead ahead and I’m suddenly aghast
for the two have now dismounted and are making for your door,
so I leap into the empty car, I hear the engine roar.
I head out onto Ventura while the two of them give chase.
I’m looking in the rearview. I see a dead man’s face.
I cry out and turn to face him as I’m slamming on the brake
but the limousine is empty, I do a double take.
Then the door is quickly opened, a stranger’s sitting down
and I know I’ll drive forever through the back streets of this town.
Now I see him riding shotgun, I wear a suit of black.
We’re cruising down the causeway with a casket in the back.
King of the Werewolves
Dark fingers wrap around the scudding clouds
squeezing the blood till it drips from the edges.
Shadows dance alone, naked in the midnight breeze,
evoking my name, calling me in crimson cadence.
I well up, I ripple, a synergy of fur and gristle.
My coat glistens, reflecting my anguish across the sky,
and the solitary watcher pauses as in second thought,
reconsiders then loosens his grip upon the stars.
The clockwork gears turn in anticipation
as I reach the wind-swept moor, senses honed,
cast a bleeding eye upward, inhale sharply
then howl my allegiance to the dark presence
crawling slowly across the face of the moon
covering the bright expanses like a lover
inching across the marriage bed, closing to his bride.
faster and faster the purple shadow grows.
Drawn by the silent sound that interrupts their dreams,
my brothers and sisters, faces lifted, red eyes ablaze,
skitter to the edge of the heath, shaggy chorus joined,
howling discordant voices, lost in ecstatic abandon.
At last the lovers separate, the sepia spaces open
between them, a bridal chamber bathed in moon glow,
golden candles flickering against the universe,
the silicon bed forlorn, the silver sheets stained red
from the blood eyes of a thousand distant witnesses
whose dead, clear faces are slowly lowered to earth.
voices stilled, the multitudes fade back into the forest.
I, who dance with shadows, am assumed into darkness
and only the watcher remains.
Almost Alice
The hour when the dead remember.
Memories lick themselves clean.
Bones resume their click-clicking.
Desire wraps itself in its velvet tail.
The wormhole opens in a minor key.
I wear my blue apron and sensible shoes,
my blond hair cosseted by a black ribbon.
Mother putters in the kitchen I think.
Father misses my birthday again riveted.
Nurse has gone flying, hands over eyes.
Reggie is sunken in his bed, hunkered
on the side of the road, a night squatter.
The white rabbit, tripping over the alarm.
The Red Queen has grown old clutching the vial
with the poison; the room grows and shrinks.
I look through the keyhole – drink me.
Nana is a puppy once more flouncing.
We play gin rummy, me and Huckleberry.
He cheats openly but I forgive him.
Tomorrow the Mad Cow returns alas!
Mister Bones is out of joint on the sofa.
My Reggie removes his shirt, nestles
under the covers, entering with tail
wrapped in velvet, the wormhole closing.
Bob
McAfee
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. He has written eight books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World. For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. Since 2019, he has had more than 60 poems selected by over twenty different publications. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry.