Richard Lehnert


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