Stalking Delight
by Patrick Bennett
Time flows under my front door,
Dr. Schopenhauer, philosopher,
Roundfaced, serious, impassive,
I look for last April in my journal
trickles through every room,
oozes over my kitchen threshold,
over the stoop, into my yard,
and heads west, without pause.
scratches his balding cranium,
meditates on all this movement,
crams it into the watch pocket
of his metaphysics. It escapes,
leaving dry ink trailing across a page.
our clocks watch from walls or
tops of tables and bookcases
as the stream ripples past,
all agreeing on the hour, but
of many minds on the minute.
and find hints of a kiss, a task,
a trip to Waco in a spring rain,
but none of their touch and smell;
I put on shoes, shirt, trousers,
and go out to stalk delight again.
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