James Croal Jackson

I have been inside

a marketing firm

with its own basketball court.

Uninspired employees huffed

then daggered meaningless

the hoop, hoping for renewal,

but no one kept score.

I could relate:

attending Catholic school,

I found it necessary

to ask for forgiveness

in the shower.

I had come to fear

a red-fanged Satan

sporting a porn ‘stache

waiting by the mirror,

covering himself with

a towel, fork in hand–

and me, behind childhood

curtains covered in soot,

water rushing, my body

seal-like from ablution.

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