Jackie By Mark James Andrews

The last days of Jackie

were spent with me

over quiet morning beers

their brain factory fried

now unemployed and waiting

on social security disability

with a work life bouncing around 

joints manufacturing car parts

as a plastic model maker

toxic chemicals a constant

a machinist casting, core-making

injecting and molding poisons

for the profit of “the shop”

heavy drinking and drugs

getting through overtime

 

“down time” and layoffs

now they knock at my door

every other day early PM

short-term memory gone

speech hesitant with word loss

Nina Simone records calm them

also photographs of cityscapes.

“You’re gonna be mad at me!”

“No dude. We’re cool,” I say.

“Listen. I blew some money

on a tattoo and I know I owe you.

What is it a hundred? Two, three?

I always wanted to get inked up 

with this, man, let me show you.”

They lift their shirt sleeve high

an Old English “D” on flabby bicep.

“The Tigers, man. Our city.

Is that fucking cool or what?

One hundred percent class.

I got ideas for more too.”

Jackie lasted another couple months

and now I think of their ashes

does their ex have them?

and their “D” tattoo up in flames

in a suburban crematorium

a new and final tattoo

and a life setting up machines

for the almighty finished product

and a good blue-collar with two hands

on an orbital sander moving back

and forth in the daily grind continuum

smoothing out the rough edges

and all imperfections in their creation.

Mark James Andrews lives and writes in Metro Detroit. He is the author of five chapbooks. The latest is At The Ice Cow Queen On Mack from Alien Buddha Press. His poetry has appeared in Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Hiram Poetry Review, Slipstream, Respect: The Poetry of Detroit Music, Rye Whiskey Review and many other spots.