Poetry

By

Len Kuntz

This Lonely

When the marauders come for you

There is nothing left to steal

Cornmeal perhaps, or stale bread

And still you are so lonesome that

You offer yourself as a proxy.

Take me, you say.

One bandit looks to the other

Then glances away

Before leaving without a word

Through the back door

You converse with the mirror

With a reflection in the window

With anything that might resemble

A friend

Lazarus Is Up

Lazarus is up.

He looks dehydrated,

but that’s to be expected from a corpse.

He asks who all cried, who all cared,

writing down every name I tell him.

What I don’t say is that I wish he’d stayed dead,

that sometimes what’s done is done,

no tricks allowed,

mortality making meaning out of death.

Len Kuntz

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press.  You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com