JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY

STRANGER IN THE CITY

I live here because

I have no roots in this place,

no family.

I cannot offend the ones I love,

only complete strangers.

So anything goes.

I adore this role of gypsy.

I think differently,

act differently,

to all these other people.

We all have hearts

and minds no doubt,

are equal in body parts,

but the sum of me

does not total up

to anyone I see around here.

I can be unpredictable,

play any role that suits.

I model myself after the chameleon.

See me change before your very eyes.

Yes, I get lonely.

And I hate myself

for not trying to fit in more.

But I don’t want anyone

else telling me that

I am a minority of one.

Only I can be

prejudiced against me.

DESERT TOWN

It’s not much of a town

and the surrounding landscape

awaits the one

who knows what to do with it.

There’s people live here

and I know all their names.

I’m welcome in every house

bar one or two.

There’s a mindset

that we are not part of anything,

certainly not of some union

centered far to east or the west

or anyplace we will never travel to.

And yet there are roads in

and thre are roads out.

We do have our boundaries –

this desert,

disobedient, recalcitrant,

dry as the bones of the dead.

Nobody could want it

and yet someday

somebody will.

It’s not safe.

War gnaws at my imagination

like the cries of crickets.

So everything must be defended.

Even what’s not worth defending.

Even this.

THOSE BIRDS AT THE FEEDER

I really do believe the birds are here at my behest,

that, even if there was no seed in that swaying feeder,

the cardinals would still perch on the oak tree branch,

spread their red crests,

the nuthatches would prance daintily down the bark,

house 1 inches squabble, chickadees chatter,

for the important thing is that my quota of nature

must be filled on a daily basis,

that connection constantly reestablished

otherwise there's just the close cut lawn,

the high fence and the house at back,

and they're not here for me.

You just think that it's survival

has them flock here every morning,

that they need the energy food to keep

them flying, procreating, raising young,

nudging the species forward.

But no, at best, they've come to

confirm my precious role in the environment.

At worst, they're here

to glimpse me at the window,

admire a bird contented in its capture.

JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes Review.