Two Poems by Michael Igoe

Faye’s Taxi

After a while, Faye became halfway famous for complaints about the stop lights enroute on South Parkway. She’d say: they’re too fast, they’re too slow; she couldn’t predict how they’d change. Faye liked a pace well past the speed limit, busy taking fares to the glittering Pavilion. Waking, startled by bold green numbers on the clock. They made her think out loud. She’d turn over, mumbling, then get ready to drive. The complaints lodged in her chemistry make for a long journey down Faye’s comic river of complaint. When I heard her mumble, it was in contentment over small joys: melted ice, wadded green bills, those willing to listen to comments on Cadillac fins and mars lights. On South Parkway one day, Faye bashed both headlights off, started shouting about stop lights though nowhere near one. After the crash, she got old fast. She still drives a cab.


we meet again                                                                                                                                                                                                you will show up                                                                                                                                       in hermit’s guise.                                                                                                                                                      After a forced march,                                                                                                                                                                           you will break camp,                                                                                                                                         join a crowd at dawn.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         You suck in thrills,                                                                                                                                       go a mile a minute                                                                                                                           on a red letter day.                                                                                                                                            In an unwanted world,                                                                                                                                        caresses without heat,                                                                                                                                notices of your arms.                                                                                                                               It comes into mind                                                                                                                                            as you’re lingering                                                                                                                                          dressed in silk shirts,                                                                                                                                                               paused on the corner.                                                                                                                                        We’re certain to obey                                                                                                                                                    red and green arrows.                                                                                                                                  Content in the outline,                                                                                                                                          of  trembling embrace,                                                                                                                            I suspect a light,                                                                                                                                                           but it is innocent.                                                                                                                                           Since you’re a hermit,                                                                                                                                    it works out the same.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Saplings grow sparsely,                                                                                                                              on a different roadside,                                                                                                                                                 designed at an interval                                                                                                                                     by both our infant years.                                                                                                                                          Then the soul of a hermit                                                                                                                                   was on a different footing.                                                                                                                               It was enraptured by items,                                                                                                                                                    that were stored in tin cans.

About the author:

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston, instructor in Psych Rehab at Boston University. Numerous works appear in journals online and print. Recent: The Blue Nib, Mineral Lit, Anser Journal and Avalanches In Poetry; National Library Of Poetry Editors Choice 1997. Check out Michael’s blog here. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism/Surrealism. “I like the night.”

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