New poems: Jack Lowe

OPEN TO OTHER SUGGESTIONS

Noon, or so. 

A Thursday. 

Another unscheduled day off.

Not sorry. 

I pull into the parking lot 

of my local supermarket 

to buy the pint of bourbon 

I promised myself 

I wouldn’t need. 

Yes, my pants are on fire

and, come to think of it,

my nose has grown a bit.

Standing just beyond 

the entrance is a young man. 

He’s clean-shaven.

His hair is neatly combed.

He’s wearing black slacks

and a white dress shirt, 

open at the collar.

He’s playing a violin. 

His violin case, 

sitting unlatched at his feet,

holds a few odd dollars 

and spare change.

The music the young man’s playing

is, in fact, wonderful. 

It’s the perfect compliment 

to this Indian Summer day. 

Several brain cells ago, 

I knew the piece well. 

Now, my mind falters 

between Beethoven’s Ode to Joy

and the theme song 

for the TV show Taxi.

At one time, 

I would’ve viewed the violinist 

as a fellow artist—

paused, savored the music,

kicked him a few bucks.

Now, I breeze past him

clutching my bourbon fund. 

My first and foremost thought:

“The cops are minutes away.”

This is when 

I almost figure it out—

I’m either old, a drunk 

or an old drunk. 

Although I remain 

open to other suggestions.

THIS IS HOW IT FEELS

Say you’re at work. 

Say that work is 

a department store’s warehouse. 

Say that the store plays music

over its P.A. system. 

Say it’s near the end

of a challenging shift.

Say after a whole day

of playing crap  

by the likes of 

Taylor Swift, N’Sync 

and Gloria Estefan, 

the store’s music system 

manages to spin 

one decent tune. 

Say it’s “Roadhouse Blues” 

by the Doors.

Say the tune soothes you

like a Band-Aid 

on a paper cut.

Say that, one minute 

into “Roadhouse Blues,” 

a certain prick co-worker

starts repeating every fucking line

that Jim Morrison sings.

Say that the prick’s voice 

sounds like a wounded gorilla,

roaring through 

an empty paper towel roll.

This is how it feels—

the urge to strangle 

another human being.

A PHILOSOPHICAL VIEW OF THE WORLD

Paul and Artie are in the men’s room,

standing at the sinks. 

Before washing his hands,

Artie reaches way back and  

scratches his ass, grinning widely. 

“What in hell are you smiling about?”

asks Paul, scrubbing his hands. 

“You look like you won the lottery.”

Artie runs water over his own mitts. 

“It feels like I did,” he says. 

“I saw my doctor last month.

He said I might have colon cancer 

and scheduled me for a colonoscopy. 

I went in for it two days ago.”

Paul grabs some paper towels. 

“Good Christ!” he exclaims. “And?”

Artie pumps the soap dispenser. 

“I got the A-OK,” he beams. 

“All I have are hemorrhoids. 

The doctor told me that 

most guys my age have them.”

Paul towels off his hands. 

“Hemorrhoids are no joke. 

They’re literal pains in the ass. 

Why the sunshine and lollipops?”

“I thought I was dying,”

says Artie, rinsing off.

“God gave me a free pass. 

Every time I scratch my ass, 

it’s like He’s reminding me 

of my new lease on life.”

Paul wads up the paper towels,

shoots them into the trash

and heads for the door. 

“Artie,” he says over his shoulder,

“you have a philosophical view of the world.”

A BIT OF SOLACE

In one of the Rocky movies---

which one doesn't matter---

the little old guy 

who was Rocky's trainer

was preparing him 

for the big bout. 

For some reason---

maybe to sharpen

his reflexes---

the trainer had Rocky 

chase a chicken.

He literally made 

the Italian Stallion 

pursue a chicken 

around an empty lot

behind a slaughterhouse 

somewhere in Philadelphia.

Few people know 

that the chicken 

had a name. 

It was called Contentment. 

I know, because I've chased

that same fucking bird 

for most of my life. 

It's a fleet-footed beast

that can turn on a dime. 

And when you think 

you've got it cornered---

when Contentment is

but inches away---

the bird will take off

and soar overhead,

just out of reach. 

I never managed 

to catch that bird.

As I recall, 

Rocky didn't, either. 

I've found a bit 

of solace in that.  

Bio: Jack Phillips Lowe is a lifelong Chicago area resident. His poems have appeared in Clutch 2026, Cajun Mutt Press and Piker Press. Lowe's most recent poetry chapbook, Brautigan's Blue Moon (Instant Oblivion Press, 2025), is available from lulu.com.