Jack

The waxing moon is setting
In the West as I drive home,
over the  chimneys
of the refineries there.
Orange, in a half smile,
almost as if in mocking
the turmoil within.

Somewhere in the shadows,
Jack sways stiffly
on a rusted spring,

over his faded box.
Its lid jammed open, and
wind-up key locked in its twelve-six position.
Jack’s eternal grin
and silly hat,

mocks.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s