UNABLE TO HELP
By David Allen
She stood alone on a deserted beach
shoulders slumped, looking out over the still sea.
Nothing moved and the blazing summer sun
beat down on her unprotected brow.
She was searching for something, someone.
I wanted to run to her, tell her the weary waves
would not always be empty, surely her lover,
son, or savior, would return some day.
But I could not.
Instead, I moved my gaze
from the decades-old painting
in a weathered frame
and returned my attention
to the TV show as the commercial
that distracted me ended.
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WANDERLUST
By David Allen
It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have
brought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.
I am the oldest of seven children
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger,
while I discovered the world.
Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories,
military bases, and the estates
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.
I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?
I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.
I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained
when life moved on
to other structures
and other worlds.
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