This Side of Awkwardness
By John Garmon
I have become a human body
All this time I was a terrorist
My dialogue was switched at birth
The pelting sleet flew off my window
Blots of worry formed in my brain
I was handsome when debriefed
Authorities enjoyed my confessions
I stood in a multitude of line-ups
When we formed a team in baseball
When I was a kid I was never chosen
I have become a clock without hands
I have faded under florescent lights
I feel like a dust ball at the airport
My mailbox is devoid of money
No one comes to see me anymore
I fell in love with another guy’s wife
I drifted into moments of confusion
Now I see how I doled out my days
Falling into calendars I lost track of time
Something I forget reminds me of you
A former president of Berkeley City College in California, John Garmon is now a writing assistant at the College of Southern Nevada, Las Vegas. His poems and stories have been in Prairie Schooner, Ploughshares, Southern Poetry Review, Florida Review, Quartet, North Country and other journals. He has been writing and submitting for more than 60 years.
I like the last line, and the one about doled out time, but clock hands are still turning.
This is a compelling poem from the first line to the last. Few poems these days draw you in: this one does. Thank you.
I have been looking for you old friend. Great poem. Write back
I just noticed your message with my poem in Radius. I hope you don’t mind that it has taken me so long to see your message. I am living in Las Vegas, NV, and working in the writing center at the College of Southern Nevada. I am 10 years into my second marriage, and enjoying the sunny weather. Let me know if you are still “out there” somewhere.
Your friend, John telephone 702-586-3773, cell 510-725-8777