Lazarus was worth a laugh
in snow-shaved winters where
alone in echoing woods he could recite
souvenir verses and poetic snatches
from brisk evening airs.
Arias of summer came and went.
Lazarus would play in bales of hay
and listen to his radio.
Not once did he seem to mind playing
the joker at our tables.
Autumns rolled the way water falls;
whispers of age almost forgave him.
He was no Dionysus:
yes, he was old—
mountains seemed to grow at his feet.
He was crazy; at least
that’s what everyone thought.
Richard Alan Bunch is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and author of several
poetry collections, including Greatest Hits; Wading the Russian River, and
Running for Daybreak. His work has appeared in Coe Review, Poetry