JOHN GREY

 

 

Over And Over

 

High atop the tower

of the suspension bridge,

a man with a brush

and a can of paint

slaps brown atop

what was brown before.

When he’s done

with this latest coat,

it will be time

to begin the next.

In the annals of repetition,

that includes bees

and gators

and Canada geese,

add man

on a bridge

with a brush

and a can.

 

The Alarm Goes Off

 

Six a.m.

If this was an airport,

shadows would be handing me

the boarding card for dawn.

If it was a woman,

I'd be wondering

why her body's hot,

yet her cheek is cold.

If it was the news,

it wouldn't be the

fluff stuff surely,

but not the hard hitting

lead story either,

no bombs, no drive-by shootings,

just the taste of death on the tongue,

some bars on the eyes

that the guy who shot his wife's lover

might someday see through.

If this was school,

I'd have learned

the head does not give

its sleep up easily.

If it was a sporting field,

I'd be goal keeper

getting scored on by

the fitful light.

But it's six a.m.,

and I'm about to

reengage the world.

I yawn, wide and long,

like posing life a simple question.

It ponders for a minute or two,

then answers with today.

 

The Little I Know Of

Why People Live Together

 

She shot him five times in the stomach,

so I heard.

The first did the job.

The next four were for underlining.

 

No one blamed her of course.

He was a brute

who bruised her face so bad

it looked like a relief map of Maine.

 

And, speaking of relief,

she got that and more

when the medics dropped his body

and it slid down a flight of stairs.

 

Sure, the cops took her downtown,

interrogated her for hours.

Their only conclusion was that

they would have liked her better

 

had she only fired the once.

Her brother found her a cheap lawyer.

He put up a cheap defense.

She got ten years

 

though she was out in five.

People point her out

hi the supermarket,

on the sidewalk,

 

as the one who just

couldn't take it anymore.

Some women consider her a hero.

Some guys figure her for a "crazy bitch."

 

To me, she'll always be a puzzle.

Why in hell did she stay with him?

Why didn't she plug the bastard

years before?

 

They talk a lot around here

about domestic violence.

Domestic brainteasers are,

to me, more puzzling.

 

Morning's Version

 

Morning,

you awaken a virgin

but then two steps on the staircase

toward where your husband

is making coffee,

and you're the sexual history of your body once again.

 

He kisses you on the cheek,

throws a few sweet adjectives your way,

even fondles a patch of unblemished shoulder

before returning to the job at hand –

convincing dark droplets to fall into a cup.

 

Morning,

you were such a solitary animal

when light shone through the window,

and tousled hair and crumpled sheets

were the extent of your finger's orbit.

 

But now you're back

to being part of the pack -

the married couples that line both sides of the street,

some with children,

some, like you, expecting the first to arrive

any day now.

 

Morning,

everything begins anew.

Fresh arms, nascent legs,

even that belly, round and full as it is,

feels as if it contains you and not some baby.

 

But then your brain's water breaks,

you give birth to yourself -

a thirty two year old woman

who's been married five years,

who's sipping coffee in the kitchen

with her husband,

whose life is set on a course unalterable

 

It's not how morning explained it 

but it will have to do.

 

Our Starring Roles

 

We’re not Fred and Ginger.

This is just a suit, not top hat and tails.

You’re in no sparkling, spangled ballroom gown.

And we’re certainly not the main attraction

on this dance floor,

merely one more couple

squeezed in between a dozen others,

fighting for foot and hip space.

 

And at home,

I’m not Tarzan,

you’re not Jane.

And we’re not as rich,

as fun-loving,

as Nick and Nora Charles.

 

Let’s face it.

Those old movies have no place for us.

We’re stuck with the film of our lives.

We’re the actors, scene designers,

wardrobe master and mistress.

We’re even the directors.

And the audience, of course.

Sure, we’re biased.

But it’s not a bad show for all that.

 

JOHN GREY

 

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books,” Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.