J. M. Jordan

Last Solo

O I was a drifting ne’er-do-well,

a will-o-wisp, a highway ghost,

a bleached totem on a weathered post,

all huff and guff and mad as hell.

You on the other hand were not

the kind to run a ragged trail,

but fixed and fastened like a nail

on which my denim sleeve was caught.

Yes, you were like the front porch light,

a warm candescent promising,

and I a blinded black-winged thing

that beat against the screen all night.

But you would not unlock the door.

So I kicked up a cloud of dust

into the darkness, fumed and cussed

and launched myself at speed once more

into a night as wild and long

as the last solo in a Southern rock song.

J. M. Jordan is a Georgia native and a resident of the Old Dominion. His work has appeared in Arion, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Louisiana Literature, Modern Age, Southern Poetry Review, and elsewhere.