"What's the world for you if you can't make it up the way you want."

-Jazz, Toni Morrison


my uncharitable donation

my uncharitable donation

A boy sits on the floor in
his underwear, somewhere, 
without the blue-collared and
pink-striped shirt
that looked so sharp against
steel eyes and combed hair –
and especially good on Easter Sunday –
or the cargo shorts with pockets
that puffed like blow fishes,
stuffed with beach shells,
or the Asics sneakers that learned 
to ride a two-wheeler bike,
proudly, all on their own.

A boy sits on the floor in 
his underwear, somewhere, 
because of my selfishness, 
naked as my guilt, unaware
that the clothes on his back,
the ones my son had outgrown
but I had not, can be found
in the brown box 
in my garage, still unloaded 
into my car, sitting there, 
while I struggle to part ways
with memories
too deeply folded into them. 


Jason Hackett is a small business owner, father of four and sleep deprived. His poems can be found in The Journal of American Poetry, Slippery Elm Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Cholla Needles, and many others.

Cover photo by Soragrit Wongsa on Unsplash

A Passing Sound

A Passing Sound

Cut the Crust

Cut the Crust