by Glen Martin Fitch
Jack's back.
That jack's an ass.
He's so damn crude.
He's all I hate.
He'll catch me unaware,
embarrass me,
make me look crass and rude.
He'll itch me
till I scratch and people stare.
He got me in such trouble
in my youth.
Around and round we go.
But he's no fool!
The stupid grin's on me
as he speaks truth.
He must be very wise
to be so cruel.
At night his weasel eyes
invade my dreams.
I'm calm. I'm cool.
He's planning his attack.
The better I become,
the more he schemes.
I'd kill him if I could.
But I am Jack.
I ought to let him out,
yet I buy locks.
One hand on lid
I shove him in his box.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011