Poetry / June 2012 (Issue 17)

Her Bruises were the Colour of Egg Plant

by John McKernan

She had actually stopped doing drugs for six months  
No   I will not stop my whining
Organ music always reminds me of a sky   Stars   Clouds
          Full moon    Helicopters    Kites    It doesn't
Dawn sky   The crack house is not the color of the sky
This check for groceries will bounce but not high enough
I refuse to close my eyes
I too am amazed at how far my car can run on Empty
           You'd think it would stop somewhere  
Not even the road maps here work any more
Just try to imagine the cuisine in that ghost town
I have never given good advice    "I'd stay home
           if I were you”
Well   The destination does matter and that was a wrong
           turn    A turn toward numbness
To question every sensation?  
Yesterday on my walk through the Dollar General lot
           I saw in the gravel beside the asphalt edges a
           brand new clock   A GE
White    Circular about ten inches across  
Twelve roman numerals

Someone had pounded it with a hammer or a brick

It seemed no more strange than history
Batteries still in  
When I picked it up the hour and minute hands [green]
           fell to the ground but it was still ticking  
It bounced twice when I dropped it    Then I kicked it
           thinking I was a kid again   Kick-the-can
It felt great   I hadn’t felt that good in months   One kick

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