Age is a Cracker Jack Box

—Poems and Photos by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL

CRACKER JACK BOX POEM

I don’t wear my pocket watch anymore
it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,
outdated gadget, time hanging where
moving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.
I don’t like to think about endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern speed dial,
no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just pops.

Lesson:  "What young men want to do all night takes older men all night to do."

 Young Couple at the Heart Attack Greasy Grill

YOUNG COUPLE
@ HEART ATTACK GREASY GRILL

I was a little boy,
tad hillbilly son,
patterned then in
present tense,
hardly old enough
tall enough to work
nor notice if I had pubic hair—
large or small endowment
growing up self-conscious
about short comings
narrow chest.

Just a teen-aged nighttime boy
looking 4 a part-time hook up—
little girl play, with a five-card stud.

Preacher daddy raised me,
back-seat Christian boy
low on faith, high on doobie
rolled cigarettes.

I took my 1st job, pancake flipper
@ Heart Attack Greasy Grill, 24-7
pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,
pancake short stack, secret menu was that
boss’s daughter, blood on hands,
my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.
Eliminate lines unessential:
waitress injected me some spice
old time recipe.

UNKNOWN POET FROM RUE MONTPELIER

I warned you darts with advice
strong words tripping over emotions
like an imbecile—
so you think you’re Leonard Cohen
loving some naked Nancy in a cluttered
matchbox apartment overlooking
European culture simulated,
above some obscure narrow
Montreal street?

For your information,
straight poetics from insanities Almanac,
Leonard Cohen died years ago
in a twisted pickle poem he
entitled “Narcissism.”

Do you and your welfare lover
desire to be the 2nd generation,
deceased, unnoticed, unheard of,
unwarranted for failure artists
inside this thin, onion-skinned wall
dingy with your dreams?
I warned you darts with advice,
tapering off with your impotence.

 South Chicago Denizen

Today’s LittleNip:

SOUTH CHICAGO NIGHT
—Michael Lee Johnson

Night is drifters,
sugar rats, street walkers, pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon signs blinking, half the bulbs
burned out.

__________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, Michael Lee Johnson, and thanks for your lively poems and photos this morning!

—Medusa, celebrating poetry!

 —Anonymous Neon

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