by Ken Been
One
Penitentiary eyes
they have done time
and been rolled nearly down
unsure of the position of the sun
in what may be a time of day under West Virginia
where words are clawed off the walls
as we may grate potatoes
over an iron sink
fixing dinner stories pulled from deep in the earth.
Two
A spectacle:
The town folks rim the shaft to the oracle
like a hammer and pick teeth
loose in the gums of the earth
just waiting for the shift change to ride out in helmets
seated in pairs on mule-drawn carts along wooden tracks
through the dust
of day and night
an unsweepable soot
that they swing from censors
coughing-up hymns
which settle on the land.
Three
Looked like always
as if that were possible
to wake up
from a scuffle
a knife fight
with misleading hair
and cuts disguised as wrinkles.
Four
A squint
and line of light on the cracked plaster of the apartment wall
maybe somebody walking by below
off Adams Street,
sliding a finger under the hem of a cheap window shade
cut to size
at the old hardware
that used to be downtown
in Fairmont.
Ken Been’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies. His most recent placements include LIT Magazine, The Opiate, Aethlon, Dodging The Rain, New Feathers Anthology, Griffel, The RavensPerch and The Metaworker Literary Magazine. His work has also been featured in Argyle Poetry Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, October Hill Magazine, Arlington Literary Journal, Remembering Lawrence Ferlinghetti and in many other publications. He is from Detroit.