Thursday, 12:20 p.m.

Tug is listening to music at his desk.

“What’s that instrument that sounds

like a washing machine?” asks Claire.

Tug says “That’s what we in the industry

call a ‘drum,’ Claire.”

A single eyelash falls from my face,

into my yogurt cup.

A redbird taps its head against the window.

Saturday, 2:22 p.m.

I’m deep in the forest right now.

I have no time to listen

to grown men argue

whether Bib Fortuna

survived Jedi or not.

I want the forest in this poem

to function like the forest

in Shakespeare comedies:

A place of working things out,

unencumbered by social constraints.

But I may have learned that wrong.

Thursday, 3:25 p.m.

No one talks about Jane’s Addiction anymore.

Their admixture of heart and decadence.

They seemed so important at the time.

I wish a machine would take me back.

Spring is here with its dampness

and smell of shit.

A guy balancing on a skateboard

with an armful of flowers.

Justin Lacour

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of the chapbook My Heart is Shaped Like a Bed: 46 Sonnets (Fjords 2022).

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