Roger Bonner has published poems in Envoi, The Drunken Boat, Delmarva Review, Ascent Aspirations, The Galway Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The High Window, and Offshoots 13 & 14 of the Geneva Writers Group.
He is also the author of a children’s book and short plays. One of them, Capri, received awards at FEATS 23 (Festival of European Anglophone Theatrical Societies). You can find him on BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/bonnerr.bsky.social

Wolfsitting

I once got roped into looking after
a wolf dog in the middle of the night,
foisted upon me by two hippie friends
who crashed at my flat on their way up
to some Nirvana retreat in the Alps.

But their scruffy cat escaped from the van,
so Kay, dreadlocks bedraggled, and
Will, thin as a pool cue and high on weed,
searched high and low for their lost kitty,
while I stayed back to wolfsit—
a task for which I lacked all practice.

He dashed to lap water from the toilet bowl,
then began to howl. And howl.
I lived in a quiet, decent building,
and such baying is not allowed,
especially between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.

How does one stop a wolf from howling?
Shushing didn’t help. I thought,
feed him. That might quiet him.
I coaxed him to the fridge,
where I had only a limp head of lettuce
and some cottage cheese, past its prime.

My wolf didn’t care. I stuffed him
with curds—he howled again.
He sniffed around the living room
while my friends kept searching for the cat.
I feared the neighbors would call the cops,
certain I was committing some crime.

“Come on, wolf-boy.” I lured him back
to the kitchen for more cottage cheese.
He wolfed it down—like wolves are wont to do—
then started howling once more.

“Listen, big loud wolf, kindly keep it down!”
I said, trying to clamp shut his snout.
Just then, the hippies returned:
Will clutching the cat,
all claws, hissing and yowling.

The wolf saw her—and stopped.
The cat stopped too—mid-caterwaul.
As if by some tacit agreement,
they decided to spare our tortured ears.

Everyone was completely wacked out,
so I bedded them down for the night.
There, with a silent wolf, they all lay
curled on my carpet, snoozing away,

as a full moon rose over the rooftop,
bathing the room in unsettling glow,
stirring ancient instincts—
in the wolf, and also in me.

Zoo People

See how they come and stare
Through bars at my wild hair

Phones poised to record
Make me feel so bored

Some recoil at the smell
Exuding from my cell

Or laugh at how I eat
Ogle when I’m in heat

Others yearn for my antics
Like hopeless Romantics

Who secretly desire
To burn with primal fire

To swing again in trees
With uncivilized ease

Even mate on the fly
Balanced on branches high

They move closer and blink
I scratch myself and think

Are they aware that they too
Are trapped in a human zoo

Leaving Behind

In my life I have slept more
Than young men sent to die
In wars waged by old men –
Twenty-seven years
Night after night of
Being edged towards this sum
A slumber that surpasses
Rip Van Winkle’s dream

But each day I wake
To wonders or horrors
Go scrabbling along
Getting by as they say
With no time for meaning
Only scattered plans
Harried at times
Often hunkering down

Now in the frost of years
I wait for the last sleep
The longest and think
It’s time to draw balance
And leave behind scraps
Of advice gleaned hard
Impart wisdom of a sort
Hope someone listens

I have found love vast
Never turn it away
That nurturing power
Give & not just take
Then friends though frail
Keep them to the end
Resist the lure of lies
Hold fast to truth