Self-Elegy by Mike James

More than once, he got into a staring contest with
His medium-sized city sky. He had many selves.
Most were put away in shoe boxes on basement
Shelves. More than basements, he feared attics.
Also, he was stone wall avoidant since Humpty
Dumpty was a minor hero. Though all his voyages
Were contained in a three block radius, he reveled
Over sidewalk cracks. Was not superstitious.
Most days involved some park bench sitting.
He kept pigeons company by providing names.
In the absence of pigeons, an expert thumb twiddler.
Also loved to lie in grass if it was tall or fresh cut.
He’d pretend to be a cloud at drift across blue,
Then grey. He was never an angry cloud.

 

 

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee. He has published in numerous magazines, large and small, throughout the country. His many poetry collections include: Leftover Distances (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), and Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog.)