Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Number eleven is my favorite number.

The working order, lucrative to

Grilled salmon and summer sunshine.

Jack bathes in the sunrays.

Heavy humidity promises slower days.


With graphite on the rivets

Of our fingertips,

Keys slip into a fury.

Pattering finger patterns

Burn conscious thought.

These lazy days are soft.

These hard days well fought.


She writes like E.E. Cummings

Because she doesn’t know how to shift.

Like a saxophone player.

Gliding across the minor scale.

Oily geared and chunky-

This piece of history.

The keyboard is her instrument.

Close your eyes or let them go fuzzy

Clear your mind or write the first thing upon it:


He calls his cat Pigeon Pillow because they are both lifted and he makes a cooing sound when he lands from a leap. Our un-mastered identities run rampant.

Jack is-

We tumble toward night, burning words and shopping for Caesar ingredients. We dream of places we call “Home” and the prospect of building one.

Jack is-

We tumble toward the unknown with a laugh behind our lips. We carry each other and a few coloured plastic balls full of catnip.

And Jack is-


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