A Walk Through Palms
by James Croal Jackson
When there’s nothing special about a sunset
lined with palms, there is nothing special.
Trees jut from behind roofs
like green skinny beanstalks extended forever.
Every plane a UFO.
Breathe the collective breaths of everyone.
Walks should be alone,
watching crows circle majestically
above stacks of garbage
bags in shopping carts.
Soon there are words:
first a sweeping hush,
a low hum.
Then the revving of neighbors
and their chatty sportscars.
The emissions enter the brain.
Then the atmosphere.
Whatever that is
is not what I am looking for.
James Croal Jackson lives for art, adventure, whiskey, and music. A few of his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, Glassworks, and Oxford Magazine. He was born in Akron, Ohio but currently lives in Los Angeles. Find more of his work at jimjakk.com.