Charlie the Boxer Returns to Town (poems from old notebooks; April 23, 1990)

This road from the jail
makes better walking than driving;
more scabs and scars and open sores on it
than on all the bodies of my roommates
living in the ashes of the burned-out bar
on Sydney street
where we pillow our heads between rusting spikes,
and blankets belong in the same myth
as the second storey.

Some call the jail “The Sleepy Hollow Hilton.”
But, as far as I can tell,
locked up has this in common with knocked-up—
either you are or you ain’t.

Around here we collect
the drippings of conscience
like bacon fat in old mayonnaise bottles
shoved to the back of the fridge
and forgotten.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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