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  Michael North has a B.A. in Interdisciplinary Studies from the University of Baltimore, with concentrations in writing and business. His poetry and prose has appeared in Poet's Ink, Welter, and Passager. Two of his works are included in Washing The Color of Water Golden: A Katrina Hurricane Anthology, edited by C.E.Laine, two works in Poems of Place, published by The Harford Poetry and Literary Society, and Octopus Dreams, an anthology by Poetry in Baltimore. He resides in Catonsville, home to many poets, and is a regular blogger at www.poetryinbaltimore.com.  

Fall 2007

Table of Contents - Vol. III, No. 3

Poetry    Translations    Interview    Essays    Fiction    Book Notes & Reviews


Michael North


Overhead Door

Accordions of steel,
Locking out the bad,
Caging in the good,
Rear entrances now the norm,
A country of storage depots,
Guardian of large deposits,
Fold down doors,
As far as the eye can see.

Caskets for the belongings,
Of the displaced, and
The castles of the gold.
New barrier to crime,
Broken, crashed through by the
Fender of an SUV, large,
Repaired by this three-man team,
Oliver Hardy in size, massive men.
You watch in disbelief,
This comedy act of skilled tradesman,
The dying breed, the few, and fewer,
On fiberglass ladders that bend like bows,
Tennis shoes flattened from weight, unlaced,
Fat that bounces, tilts, huge tits, crushed ankles,
Skilled workers nearly too big to work,
As a tiny Salvadoran cleans the floor nearby,
Content, covering lots of ground, no sweat.

This act repairs the welded channels,
Lift the folding metal, tighten bolts,
Raising themselves on lifts that strain,
In this niche of American engineering,
To separate the hungry outside world.

Men, puffing,
Waiting for death,
Smoking every hour, eating sandwiches,
A gasp between each grab of the hand tools,
Joking, profane language,
Truly funny in their niche,
Making money beyond belief,
Like the American niche
That is now coming to a halt.

Electronic pulleys wait, watch, and
Hope the heart of this clown act survives,
Keeping out the evil world,
The guardians of all this material,
That fewer boys learn to protect each year.

Who will keep out the omens,
The thin roaches,
Who prey at night,
When the doors are alone,
And the huge wooden crates,
Bury our men?



Mule left to graze
In barren clover field
Next to the stable
Of prancing


Michael North

Poetry    Translations    Interview    Essays    Fiction    Book Notes & Reviews


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