My Employment History as Jenga Game

by James Croal Jackson

        I see the opening
                then can’t breathe
                            when placing down
                     the block–
                                              one wrong move
                  and I’m living in the car again.
          Cheaper rent. The simpler things–
                      brick house,
                                 white dress–
                           were romantic once
          but my mouth is full of blood, teeth
                                                  falling
                                                          out,
                    my stomach yellow-splotched
                                        (and not from the sun).
              The rocks in my shoes,
                                   holes in my
                                                    wallet,
                              ripped nets my lovers fall
                                                                through
                                  (rely on me?
                                                      They know
                                      I grind my teeth in sleep).
              How summery it was to think I could
                    make the next job work, mountains
                                             of manila folders
          perpetually stacking, tumbling–
                             the dim room’s exit blocked
                                          from collapse.