3 Poems

By Michael Igoe

Immeasurable

We are living in a region
where dictates of custom
require a certain reserve.
With our sentiments unsure
of life trapped in the maze.
In the recurrent memories
an experience of mockery.
As the alarm bell sounds
glances flicker and meet.
Sending their message
when the time is right.
Accustomed to do without
any semblance of affection.
I have spent precious time
trying to keep my distance.
I remain in the same places
that grimaces were created.
At the doors to a courtway
bald men in folding chairs
sit underneath the awning.
During winters they scatter
rock salt from a burlap bag.

Rare Sighting

If I’m on the right part of the river,
I’m recognized for my compliance.
With sharp knives in freeplay,
took vows with long lost loves.
Right past the city limits
I had the familiar feeling
of losing my boundaries.
There was foreign matter
in long draughts I drank.
I detected similar smiles
among darkened faces.
Faces that came from out of town
explaining ins and outs of birdlife.
Small wonder the fear of others
leaves me ripe for the plucking.
Only willing to meet strangers
to benefit from their protection.
The dedicated students of petty thievery
seems to be covetous of useless trinkets
they learned to fix the price of the dime.

Rooming House: A Prose Poem

I watched while my hands were tied. This might be a horse of a different color.
I always seek success without the ability to produce miracles cheaply. I am only trying to get
by. I am cutting costs by manufacturing my own way of thinking.
At one time, I indulged myself in the hero worship of a five star general. But I was a recent
convert to the belief that war was all wrong. That they should ban the bomb.
The lady of the house seemed familiar. She was a retired civil servant and was granted
permission to keep her telephone separate.
She listened to a radio her father gave her for her birthday when she was just a little girl. It ran
well on two transistors. I rented one of the rooms with a faded flowered bedspread. The radiator
was green. Morning was the only time for rising.
I’m no good in the morning. I only catch my breath later in the day. I don’t like the idea of
greeting the world face to face on a consistent basis. I don’t want the monotony of slumber
interrupted. It’s somewhere I can play by my own rules.
In the interest of fashion, I started a phase of wearing suspenders. I drank bourbon on ice and
talked quietly in the mirror. With part of the money my father gave me I went to the corner store
routinely. The other day, the clerk gave me a strange look when I bought a glass diamond
ring. To further pique his interest, I bought a dime baseball made in Japan.
I like driving in the early morning before the highway is crowded with jeering voices. When it
snows, the flakes get through the window of my car if it’s stalled and settle on a motionless arm.
In my lifetime I couldn’t help but notice an endless supply of sunrise. I probably used more of
them than anyone else. I find it easy to forgive myself for breaking promises.
I can clip my fingers while I comb my hair in the rearview mirror. Watch myself smoking.
I kept remembering a dream that had to do with ascension. It came from a session on an
overused ouija board that was stowed in the attic. I tried not to wonder too much about the way I
managed to record it. It doesn’t come this way too often, or for nothing.
I have a strategy for finding a good excuse to continue moving forward. It forms as an apparition
with speed and power. I don’t harbor any guilt by the lies I’ve told. I was free as the breeze when
I told them, as an exercise in petty glory.

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Numerous works in journals and anthologies(available at amazon.com, lulu.com, barnesandnoble.com). National Library of Poetry (Owings Mill MD) Editor’s Choice Award 1997. Best of the Net Nomination 2023. poetry-in-motion.org