“I shadow box the sheet hanging over the opening
to the back of my house,
tacked up to trap in the heat.
I jab sometimes with knives in each hand
shredding the sheet before me,
or with a hammer-like swing
to the right stab at the bathroom door.
A young Mexican man at my gym
beams and asks if I’m training for a fight.
No, just fighting my own demonios.
He laughs but nods his head yes to this…”
We’ve featured John’s poems a number of times over the years, and every one of them hits you like this one does – that is, like a set of knuckles between the eyes. Go to the main part of our site to read the rest of this one, and be sure also to check out “Near the Old Packard Plant.”