From “Fire Stations”

/, Blesok no. 58/From “Fire Stations”

From “Fire Stations”

Night Work
The Sleeping Gypsy
Saturday Night
Blackbird
Acoustic Mineral Wool
The Silken Road

He joined me, uninvited, at the bar: a roly-
poly dietician, his fractured jaw half bowling-ball
size and black. Over soda and lime, he gave me
his hardline battery hen philosophy:
Eating an egg is like eating a piece of Hell.

And more: the dietician had seen the Devil,
once, stepping out of a painting dressed
in sandals and a straw hat. Not only that — the Devil
followed him home and for six months hen-pecked:
Why not do yourself in
. A close call. Still,

he survived. He’d had worse: like the solid hour
locked in a freighter’s cold-storage compartment,
slipping on frozen kippers. Only now
he sees faces by the roadside in weeds and flowers,
my own face falling, as he rose, and simply said:

We’ll meet again. I’ll know where to find you.

AuthorA.B. Jackson
2018-08-21T17:23:04+00:00 February 25th, 2008|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 58|0 Comments