We walked to the Cultural District to be at the jazz festival & basked in the sax of Nubya
Garcia beside men on mushrooms grooving underneath eternal heat, sweat in the air
everywhere. It was a rare off being free to roam in the spring-summer-autumn days
of Lone Wolf. This year, we seek public stairs down the warehouse side of Liberty Avenue,
past the church turned brewery & power plant we nearly lived across from. Above’s the plentiful
hill with blue water tower, where we pretend the mayor lives inside its steel blue dome with all the rich hidden
in the hills with their crow vision. The community pool is empty. The boring streets to drive through
are the interesting ones to hike with uneven brick & ramshackle storefronts never noticed. Here’s a record
shop for anarchists. In this decrepit year we look to fill my head with chaos to make sense of the field around us.
We have been walking & walking the sunset magenta over Bloomfield Bridge yet summer seems a year away.
James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and recent poems in DASH, Sampsonia Way, and Pacifica. He edits The Mantle Poetry (themantlepoetry.com) and works in film production in Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)