JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY

THE VIOLINIST

I must sit through this.

The violinist is family.

Itzhak Perlman is not.

The twelve-year-old on stage

in the school auditorium

is a nephew.

His instrument is no Strad,

just the best his parents can afford.

The chinrest presses against

callow bone.

Left hand fingers squeeze against the neck

as he grips the bow in his sweaty right.

At least he looks the part.

My obligations have taken me everywhere

from soccer matches to Christmas pageants.

I expect the worst

but am constantly amazed

that there are levels of awfulness

even beyond that.

At least Brahms is not the audience.

I quake here in his stead.

and his Vienna graveyard is far enough away

that there's little risk of his bones rolling over.

The performance begins.

Horsehair's supposed massage of wire

soon descends into torture.

My sister smiles with pride.

Her idea of the classics can't get beyond Bon Jovi.

Thankfully, it's soon over.

Heifetz will pick up where Junior left off.

The piece will be in safe hands once more.

Family can go back to being blood,

not giving it.

FIRST TIME THEY'VE SEEN

EACH OTHER IN A MONTH

Joe and his old man

sit at the diner counter,

watch egg yellow

swarm around cigarette ash.

Dregs of orange in Joe's glass

are starting to attract the flies' attention.

The other sips black coffee

down to the stains on the bottom of the mug.

The conversation barely got beyond

the weather, politics and the Red Sox.

As a remedy for

"we don't do anything together anymore,"

it needs more work

than an isolated Saturday morning breakfast.

But now they've fallen into a nervous silence.

Waiting for the check to come

can be the longest time of all.

The waitress is busy with two guys

who insist on flirting with her.

They're skilled at it apparently

for she seems so reluctant to break away.

What have Joe and his father got to offer

compared to some sly remarks,

an occasional burst of laughter.

Neither suggests that they should

do it again some time.

Now they're waiting to pay.

As if they haven't been doing that already.

BOOKS FOR KIDS

She buys books to read to her children.

Down from the shelves comes,

"The Wind In The Willows,"

"Alice In Wonderland" and 'The Snow Goose,"

favorites from when she was young.

But those children have grown

with offspring of their own.

"Come here," she says to her grandkids,

"and I'll read you a story."

But they have their tablets and their phones.

They make their excuses.

"She called me by my mother's name,"

says one to the other

once they're out of hearing.

So she reads them to herself.

Her audience is small but riveted.

JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.