Poems
by James Croal Jackson

Having Won a Two-Day Trip to Hawaii

 

We wait in the endless line on principle–

backpacks full of familiar belonging,

dreaming to get away. This past decade:

a years-long playback on one of those

stereos everyone wanted. A CD requiem

that spun, skipped, shook–

and is now obsolete.

 

 

 

 

 

Google You

 

if you could search through

your life you would

 

page upon white page

the deserts of texas

 

memory in a buggy

 

toting high school calculus

sleeping it off

 

the usual

what’s expected

 

 

 

 

 

Google Home Quarantine

 

The crickets chirp when you sniff the cat–

that’s our bedtime routine.

Google asks us to set an alarm:

                                                      never.

 

 

 

 

 

missing home

 

nights were alive with music

wine crushed coffee bones faded

light to sleep dustballs curled

were swept away

 

 

 

 

 

Promise of Morning

 

broken wind through bent window

tonight estimates life long enough

to breathe sunlight

 

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