by  Stephen Jackson

He is most certainly not
the line stretched taut for clothes
from back porch to telephone pole

in a scorch of August tar-melt
gripping wood and rusty hook—
a perch for two black birds.

He may be, however, the thought
of it—everything hanging slack
in this heat, he is more or less

one dirty kid in bare feet who
dances over the tar-hot street, two
black crows glistening overhead.
&
&

Stephen Jackson 

Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest, where he divides his time between Washington and Oregon. His poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, HelloHorror and Impossible Archetype.

Artist: Unknown