WOODPECKER REPORT NO. 48

by Jnana Hodson

I lay out solitaire cards like a fortune
I’ll quickly forget
then remember how I once thought
drunkenness
would lead to poetry

back when I was always at the edge
of despair or worse
rarely was I fully present

assuming each task would lead to the next
reward or recognition just around
the corner all along, a generalized numbness,
a fog, a sense of being boxed inside
corrugated cardboard on a humid day
a desire to break out, to run
shake the trees, spread wings, higher

admittedly, these days Americans hold
a diminished sense of control over our destinies
and it’s hard to see nature
through all the industrial debris.
“these kids aren’t homeless,” the San Francisco cop says
“they just have no direction”

as far as fortunes, ask how that great-grandfather
ever made a living (much less, an apparently good one)
selling paper stock to printers
by riding his bicycle from Bowling Green, Missouri
the whole time his wife called him Mr. Adams

~*~

That’s what Woodpecker said.

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