John Michael

Homesick Brinksmanship

I know a place where we can leave the streets
A black blanket cafe that leaves no room to breathe
But the entry fee it takes to get in
I got by stepping on weakerthans

Bar-soap-washed hair running under my palms
Forty backward notes to trenchant psalms
Hearts still struggling to beat in sync
Your scratch-ticket fingers feel coarse, she says

Well your red-stained lips may still look sweet
With a smokestack accent overdue a sweep
But from across the street
You felt more like home

John Michael doesn’t have a Boston accent. He is a New England separatist, a Red Sox diviner, and a writer of prose. He is currently seeking a publisher for his novella. You can find his work in journals such as NANO Fiction and The Finger, or read more at www.johnmichaeltxt.com