Two Poems by P.K. Page

The Conjuror

Tonight

under this sky

I could plunge my hands in the snow

and pull forth goldfish.

In The Waiting Room

I've just cut my index finger

on the surfeit of staples

in your manilla

envelope, George.

Eager already to read

the books it pouches,

I tear and cut.

Blood spurts as if I

were bleeding to death

I staunch it with

Kleenex.

Red in a flash.

The receptionist hovers

helpless hopes

it don't hurt (her grammar)

fails in the flood of her faint.

I fan her

try to loosen her collar.

The blood

stains her

stains her soft throat

the white skin of her chin,

there are drops on her sweater

as I

her assailant

stand guiltily by

holding my bleeding finger

like a knife.