Saturday, September 29, 2018

The Sunday Poet: Mike Igoe

Mike Igoe

Born and raised in Chicago, longtime Boston resident, social activist, member of Democratic National Committee. Numerous publications in magazines and journals, counselor to ex-offenders and disturbed children. 


                                                                        Something the blue teenager sold you/tried your spirit/clueless about those done deals/there's no clue to his handcrafted tattoo./Rain perennial, eternal, falls on sleights of hand./Something he told you/caused you wonder/those telltale signs of good luck/while loitering in halls/asleep in stalls/enduring the daily routine/much like a fruit vendor in disguise. He thought every area was like yours and mine/the park expanse, the neon pizza sign. As you started walking, it dawned on you in the blink of an eye/something that teenager had: you needed badly. In his everlovin' silent night/the mysteries of the flame/memories of sighs. A wick burning/as you wrote out these words/tending the same machine/mercilessly entombed/you wept over your waking fate./Something creased your head/same weight as everything you knew/living in moments of grief/constant pulse of what the dial light says/light and shadow; the last call on the cellphone screen/like the message carved in the back of the hand/palms pressed on the further wall/with telltale signs of good luck.