My Soul
In the suburbs on a bike path that in
any other age would be a road roughed
halfway through some dark wood’ s listening heart
two damp young men in suits sucked dry of light
walk stiffly and uncertain round a bend
in each left hand the black box of a book
They see me then spread out to fill the way
as sun blares down and dry May wind slaps
cheap loose plastic cloth against their shins
The thinner taller blond one greets me in
an earnest tone these days not often heard
and when I do not take his offered hand