Three Poems by Marcus Jackson

First Job

Khaki smock pocketing a ballpoint and box-knife, I shelved processions of tinned soup, pickles jarred in jade juice, 10-pound potato sacks, some

already rotten, nibbled by gnats. The ceiling speakers dealt muffled music. At closing moment’s cusp, I swabbed all twelve aisles, bucket water murkier each time I returned to it.

My neck and shoulders stretched broader in the mirror before bed; granddad glanced at me, his face pleased as a dusted plaque. Jobless pals teased how I lacked

time to blend with them, to saunter neighborhood parts that sharpened after dark. Retrieving the trackless trains of parking lot carts, rutted snow swallowed my shoes, wind

gnawed my ears and nose. Reaching the store’s warm door, the word Friday swayed like a falling feather in my brain. Friday, payday, check

lock-boxed in the office, date with a girl who wore juniper ear beads, the movie theater’s violet air, popcorn blooming past the bag brim,

then a midnight diner, burgers with wide fries, tip laid at the catsup’s flank, waitress bringing two forks and one plate – lemon meringue that radiated.

Discrepancy

You don’t own any suits that cost less than my rent. Your office perches at hawk’s view; mahogany paneled champagne fridge to toast successful deals.

My mailroom radio trills, speaker-mesh bleary like carpet layers’ knees.

Your pupils trace ridged print in The Wall Street Journal; Japanese tea calms your inner caverns.

I read Zora Neale, gulp cafeteria coffee, hors d’oeuvres of Cheeto or Frito-Lay while Janie and Tea Cake work The Muck.

From your Tribeca residence, you can view the Empire State Building light nightly like a national candle.

At my D train stop, outside a turnstile, a couple roars at each other over a squandered metrocard.

Could you contemplate a trade? CEO salary for the ingenuity of crunching funds to square the electric?

Chauffeured Towncar for an engine-rumped bus with windows blanched by breath?

Monday-Wednesday-Friday chef for scissoring coupons and frying from a leased stove?

Eye-drying merger travel for a broken-in couch and bodega beer?

Calls walled with vacant talk for a Marvin Gaye record (evaporated ruby in your ear)?

Shuffle of annulment files, the cufflinked filters that are your lawyers, for a night with a woman whose skin redeems anything the day means?

Notice how answers may not matter?

How earth simply picks different specifics by which it twists each of us to dust?

Ode to Kool-Aid

You turn the kitchen tap’s metallic stream into tropical drink, extra sugar whirlpooling to the pitcher-bottom like gypsum sand. Purplesaurus Rex, Roarin’ Rock-A-Dile Red, Ice Blue Island Twist, Sharkleberry Fin; on our tongues, each version keeps a section, like tiles on the elemental table. In ninth grade, Sandra employed a jug of Cherry to dye her straightened bangs burgundy. When toddlers swallow you, their top lips mustache in color as if they’ve kissed paint. The trendy folks can savor all that imported mango nectar and health-market juice. We need factory crafted packets, unpronounceable ingredients, a logo cute enough to hug, a drink unnaturally sweet so that, on the porch, as summer sun recedes, Granddad takes out his teeth to make more mouth to admit you.