September 12, 2022

By James Croal Jackson

Contractors punched holes

in the blue ugly wall to

install ductless A/C. Is it

too early to call? The bluff

of all honest work, of

fields fluffed in green-gold,

green. Gold. This is

one of our most

expensive living

expenses. We have

been making them

a lot lately. I know

this does not

bode well for

my poor artist

soul, the growing

growling inside

that rebels against

every instinct

society calls

ok, society says

a lot of things

I do not listen to:

from the tall tree

falls the better

fruit. No, I grew

up with blueberry

bushels and ate

by the palmful–

now feeling awful,

looking back, that

more authentic life–

but what good is

nostalgia that ends

in the rememberer’s

angst? Back then, I

sang melodies in my

head. Today,

I forget the key.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, Vilas Avenue, and *82 Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)