Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Numerous works appear in journals and anthologies (available at amazon.com, lulu.com, barnesandnoble.com). Regular contributor to Spare Change News (Cambridge MA) and feversofthemindpress.com. Instructor at Boston University Center for Psych Rehab.

Twitter: MichaelIgoe5: poetry-in-motion.org

Woodlawn

Where it’s easy to grasp,                                                                                                                        the will behind the deed.                                                                                                                                      The trick mirrors                                                                                                                                          reflected a figure                                                                                                                                        with baggy pants.                                                                                                                                                  The nervous player,                                                                                                                                   and novelty shooter                                                                                                                                  aim the breach load.                                                                                                                                    At blue steel ducks,                                                                                                                              on man made lakes.                                                                                                                               I came to realize,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         the same whorls                                                                                                                                            sit on ten fingers.                                                                                                                                 Saying hocus pocus                                                                                                                                                      saying abracadabra.                                                                                                                                             I follow all the rules                                                                                                                                  only allowed to fall,                                                                                                                                                      when the paint dries                                                                                                                                        Once I had a house,                                                                                                                                 once I had to laugh.                                                                                                                                 Withdrawn as my own enemy,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
to the rock and the hard place.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      It was early, but now it's later.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Walking Woodlawn Cemetery,                                                                                                                              to be surrounded by its graves.                                                                                                                       

Tidings

Amber is the color of fear                                                                                                                   in the center of a stoplight.                                                                                                                       Amber is chosen,                                                                                                                                           as one of its hues.                                                                                                                               A brown armadillo,                                                                                                                                        at a fork in the road.                                                                                                                               We sang every Easter,                                                                                                                                snarling and feasting                                                                                                                                 under the waning sun.                                                                                                                   Waiting for St. Anne,                                                                                                                                  who deals every card,                                                                                                                      faceless and senseless.                                                                                                                          They fall to the felt,                                                                                                                              in downward spirals.                                                                                                                                 We’re placing wagers,                                                                                                                             on unhappy childhood.           

Excellence in Bruising                                                         

It takes certain colors                                                                                                                                      to gather on a ceiling.                                                                                                                            Gathering starshaped,                                                                                                                                   stars wearing frowns .                                                                                                                                   I could only wonder                                                                                                                             in their lazy galaxy,                                                                                                                                 did they ever smile.                                                                                                                                                      I took my place                                                                                                                                   in shallow water.                                                                                                                                            But it takes work                                                                                                                                  from many hands                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      to bear fruit at all.                                                                                                                                   If it appears a disgrace                                                                                                                                     it’s written in a ledger.                                                                                                                   Avoiding conflict                                                                                                                                                   whatever the cost.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
We already knew about                                                                                                                          the blood on their hands.                                                                                                                             It can’t be washed off,                                                                                                                              stays that way forever.                                                                                                                          The frozen limbs                                                                                                                                       hard like timbers.                                                                                                                                    Buried in our farmland,                                                                                                                             we knew nothing more.