Three Poems by Michael Igoe

Famous                                                                               My father pointed                                                                                                                                     toward the ravines                                                                                                                                                                where he was born.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          A tough baby with                                                                                                                                                                a torch and lumber                                                                                                                                       he sees fit to fill                                                                                                                                                         each and every  ravine .                                                                                                                                We come from a place                                                                                                                                         without reflection                                                                                                                                                     on the river.                                                                                                                                               It’s famous for flies                                                                                                                                                    in a dead end fevers                                                                                                                                         faded town belts out                                                                                                                                                      few tunes we can hear                                                                                                                                       Lullabies waft in breezes                                                                                                                               they’re pleased to let me                                                                                                                                                                   know exactly where I am.                                                                                                                                On a pristine river                                                                                                                                             where fame swells                                                                                                                                  in smaller portions.                                                                                                                                                                                              

Casualty                                                                                          I was not happy,                                                                                                                                             born in a manger                                                                                                                                                       as born hatemonger.                                                                                                                                       I can’t pay attention                                                                                                                                                                 to  another message.                                                                                                                                 It will only show up                                                                                                                                                     in a different phrase.                                                                                                                                       Frowns of a lazy sister,                                                                                                                                            gathered on the ceiling.                                                                                                                                                           They take deep breaths,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    preserved by turpentine.                                                                                                                                               

Rehashed                                                                           We lack the poise                                                                                                                                                              of old movie stars                                                                                                                                                                         in the brass frames.                                                                                                                                    Look at the histories,                                                                                                                                                     of random encounter,                                                                                                                                                                   in the subway tunnels.                                                                                                                                                Both these things,                                                                                                                                               stars and tunnels,                                                                                                                                                                                             willingly become                                                                                                                                      warm and electric.                                                                                                                                         They lose their place                                                                                                                                   in our secret orchard.                                                                                                                                  A dire warning comes                                                                                                                                      from the hoarse throat,                                                                                                                                             in a coat of candle wax.                                                                                                                               Since we lost spare parts                                                                                                                             on the side of the tracks.                           

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston, numerous works appear in journals online and in print. Recent: anserjournal.org, musicalprimate.com, minerallit.com. Anthologies: Avalanches In Poetry, The Poets Of 2020, Fevers Of The Mind Press available at Amazon. National Library of Poetry Editor's Choice Award 1997. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com, Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.