Chick-Fil-A
In the car my trainee says
I like Chick-Fil-A but I am not devout
in response to the chain’s
construction across the street
from the Panera we deliver food
for. And I want to say
If you care about gay rights
how can you stomach the roadkill
they sell? It is disgusting
and we should spit on it.
Spit on McDonald’s, too.
McDonald’s always spits on us!
I ate it up through childhood.
You know how some say they
don’t care until someone hurts
someone they care about?
Be brave enough to care
about the person more
than the sandwich.
Strip District
You work the pole– sweet
iso, that gig, mix of propyl and pyro
and sweet sixteen, blown out
birthday candles– in the Strip
District. That works, the arrangement
invoking higher powers (Catholic
because the universe placed you
in rural Pennsylvania). You have
recovered enough for so & so. Got
your mind back, your gig’s a block
from mine, by Uber, by auto, by ware
-house. Before sun sets I am ready
to quit my office job again, but I’ll
think of you when I pass
your work so dark when it’s dark,
so warehouse when it’s bright, you
bright? I’m worn as a shoe I wear
the same ones every day for years
and years and years.
Stand
I am begging for you to be well.
At Spirit in Lawrenceville.
Lung cancer
I can’t
stand this for you. I
love you enough to know
this world
is too crowded without
you & me standing
around, heads bobbing,
at another live show
at a smoky dive bar,
asking each other
what we want next
& how much more
dearly in this life can
we stand to lose?
At Jozsa Corner
You show me your ring from across the table
at Jozsa Corner purple glinted trophy a fern
to see you over table just fingers stretched
endlessly in the wooden field of my eyes
I didn’t try to find you allowed only the vase
of petals to interrupt us eucalyptus without
features I wanted to stop with this pot
of gold display but I am becoming beyond
my means more materialistic too waiting
for flicks of phone to tell me what waits
at my doorstep nothing so glamorous
as commitment nothing but capitalist
tendencies thrust in my face everywhere
In Line
Seconds
pass. Butterflies wing,
a note floats spring
sprawled across,
cursive,
swarming
into new jazz
harmony to
-gether in the
melting lease
of body.
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Stirring, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. Instagram. Bluesky.
You can find more of James’ work here on Ink Pantry.
