Mark Jackley

Dream of a Stepladder

I didn’t

climb it but

crawled under it

like a child

entering

a world

where the only

thing to fix

was the urge

to step

instead of

listening

to my bones

quietly

explain

there was

nowhere else

Rothko With My Pants Down

After the nurse rubs Lidocaine

on my penis and

the doctor slides a camera through it,

I spy a Rothko poster,

pink and pale blue bars

floating in cloudy greys. I wonder

what he saw,

what the doctor will see,

what I will see when I stumble out

into the parking lot

blinking at the canvas

of the uncommitted sky, free to be astonished

by a drop of rain.

Fully Retired, Sonny Rollins Does the Laundry

The dryer hums.

Yoga breath,

humdrum zen—

not the horn’s bright fire but

a heap of

crumpled pants

still warm,

singing

to long fingers.

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Mark Jackley's poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, The Cape Rock, Does It Have Pockets, and other journals. He lives in northwestern Virginia.