Wherever You Are
A city changes you
after a decade or so, and when
you return, even a year later,
the city’s moved on, changing
new people in its time,
its place. Very rarely,
a stone midnight, the waters hard,
an egg breaks open and anoints you
breathlessly home.
Otherwise, a red neon minus sign
with traffic—throbbing your brain—
decidedly worse.
~
Both Doors
Once again, the very home
I grew up in. Moving boxes
in each room. Every bed empty,
stripped. The dusk blacks out
through the windows and I flick on the light.
Nothing. But I don’t need to see, every inch
familiar now to these otherwise blind hands.
Both doors to the outside must be dead-
bolted with a key from within. Without it,
you’d be trapped. When I wake up,
my parents are still dead.
~
Egg Hunt
I wonder who’s inside
that white bunny suit, a man
I think. The bunny’s head is big,
wide eyes, a smile
with long front teeth, the tallest
pointed ears. He loves children,
carries a pink and green basket and points
to bushes and even farther
past the yard. The woods.
My tummy hurts. He turns
toward me and holds out the white-
gloved hand for my own tiny hand.
He wants me to follow him
over there, where it’s dark.
~
Clown
In the toddler’s bedroom
A naked red light bulb.
~
In the Basement
Pull the string cord. Light!
Footsteps on the wooden stairs.
The cobras slowly awaken
then coil themselves tight.
~
Peter Ramos has two books of poetry, Lord Baltimore (2021, Ravenna Press) and Please Do Not Feed the Ghost (2008, BlazeVox Books). He is Professor of English at Buffalo State University.