delivery

Falling Rock

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

As soon as a stone (from where,
who knows?) cracked my wind-
shield during a delivery I quit

my job as a driver. I zagged
right from the highway’s
middle lane to the median

and set the car in park,
but could not control my thoughts–
chest throbbing, engine thrumming.

I had to step out and breathe
before I could convict the
quartz intending to harm me.

All smooth and small, I was not
sure which was the right rock,
scanning gravel to see several

similar enough. But the wolf
among them, I know, wanted to
break the glass, blind me

and puncture my jugular, only
for me to be saved by a surgeon
who would never fully believe

the story. I avoided death this time,
alive on the side of the road, looking
back in search of a falling rock sign.

(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)

Temporary

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I often dream of simpler times–
driving my car to a customer

with a bag full of food, and poof–
gone. Then the memory fades

in an instant. All of time
passing. Right now. Into the ether.

The clock has dropped its weary
hand a tick downward.

The other hand desperately
reaches toward the sun.

(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)

Disc Golf

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–

I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need

to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off

routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming

the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another

wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.

(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)

Whip Your Flame Hair Against Me

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

and I am on fire too ready
to burn Panera down
no one really wants this hospital

food its chemicals inside
that make it breathe the bread
is moving if you watch

close enough its heartbeat
in your mouth we are all on
fire this former dead living

animal a baguette string inside
my intestines there are wings
in my salad flapping dead cells

floating and all I can do is be
the sun and burn the whole world
then flush my throat with water

(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)

Courier

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Delivering packages–
I see names, not
always faces, but you,

I know your name
too well, your face in my
mind a ceaseless rain.

I knock on your door–
your dog barks,
wags his tail

when he sees me
through the window. I do
not stay for a signature.

I walk briskly
to my van and drive
to my next ping,

somewhere deep in
the city, another box
with a stranger’s name

on a different, faceless porch.


(originally published in Uppagus, Spring 2021)

Valentine Pizza Risk

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

lost last night’s gold after the Adriatico’s pizza
guy gave us a tip: wait
                                          for me to leave

strummed strings past afternoon stairs
mozzarella between our teeth      hands on hips
                                                                              lips and tongue

I was your favorite human for one night out of a billion
you said and said     kept me a dice roll away my bedroom just
                                                                                                      a flick of your fingers

 

(originally published in 8 Poems, Fall 2019)

Interview with Marissa at Panera

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Sitting across the small table in the company of bagel
art and clanking dishes transported from trash to the back,
she asks no questions about what I’d bring to this table,
just asks about my experiences working with The New
York Times and making ends meet in studios by the sea
in southern California, how different that life was,
how, starting Friday, I’ll make a good delivery driver

 

(originally published in The Literary Nest, Spring 2019)

McDonald’s Delivery

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

voila! magic! mcnuggets
at the front door a knock-
knock and bag grab
now alone at the edge
of the long kitchen table
the a/c roars on lukewarm
meat between my teeth

*

voila! magic! blood struggles through
breathing’s become an hourglass
my girlfriend says her dad had a heart
attack at thirty then gave up meat
I press a button the heater burns on

(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Winter 2019)