top of page

Mike Jenkins

Mike Jenkins in Performance

This poem is from WALKING ON WASTE.

Matchstick Man

                                    Mornings, we often passed him on the road,
                                    he drew out eyes like a full, white moon,
                                    he was always focused on the way ahead:
                                    the belt of conifers around the mountain.
                                    Like a shroud, he wore his hood,
                                    his skin like lime of the Georgetown tip,
                                    his boney limbs seemed poles of wood,
                                    his features rough stones of the hill-top.
                                    He was on the way up, we were descending,
                                    each breath a punch beyond his weight,
                                    each drab paving-stone the ring
                                    of canvas where he'd bloodily fought.
                                    Now he's struck in metal down town
                                    and nobody can break the Matchstick Man.

bottom of page