More Poems By John Grey

John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.

PEOPLE AT THE DOOR

The couple at the door

wore dark clothes.

She figured they were selling something.

Or hoping to convert her.

She had no money to buy.

And she was contented in her own church.

But she liked to talk.

So she opened up to them.

Once inside, they told her that her son was dead,

shot by person or persons unknown.

She collapsed in a chair.

She had always dreaded this day.

And here it was.

The only consolation was that

there could be no days like this ever again.

She only had one child.

From then on,

people at the door would only

be trying to sell her something

or to convert her.

“Just let them try,” she said.  

HE DRINKS

He can't remember

when he didn't need a drink.

It might have been that time

when his ex sent him to rehab.

For that cruel week,

it wasn't need but craving.

He drinks.

First thing in the morning

he lights a cigarette -

yeah he smokes too -

then he's out into a world

whose main function is

to quench his undying thirst.

He passes guys sweeping the sidewalk

in front of the shops

or setting up fruit

fresh from the market

in display boxes.

They're getting ready to open,

for their day to begin.

It's no different for him.

There's always a tavern waiting,

always someone who has

to plop down on a stool

front and center to the bartender

while ordering the first one of the day.

He survives off a settlement for a car accident.

He nibbles on whatever's

in the jar on the counter.

He hasn't seen his ex in years

and, by noon, it's like

he's never seen his ex.

Twelve midday -

the hour sounds heavy but he's weightless.

Totally out of it.

Doing, feeling, remembering nothing.

He finds his life works best when it's unlived. 

IN A SINGLES BAR

When a woman enters,

guys sit around,

hands on chins,

scrutinizing her.

One will point to a detail,

breasts say,

and whisper something like,

"They're fake."

Another will respond,

"So what/'

A third will pay attention her legs.

A fourth, her ass.

In time, every body part

will be broken out from the rest of her,

discussed, dehumanized,

then put back in place.

Five minutes after

a woman enters,

she's a whole being again.

In fact, she can't remember a time

when she wasn't.

ODE TO A DINER

The vinyl seats have been around forever

but then again so has the waitress.

They're patched with duct tape.

Makeup covers her rips and tears.

The menus, sticky with maple syrup,

haven't changed in years

Even the daily specials,

advertised in chalk on a blackboard,

are the same liver and onions

as the day before and the day before that.

The customers are mostly old-timers and cops,

plus a few strays off the nearby highway.

From the biscuits and gravy,

the tasteless western omelet,

to the rancid coffee in mismatched cups,

local color is showing its age.

  

THE WORKER

In a city where stuff had to get done,

he labored in stone or steel or wood,

whatever was put before him,

no flashes of inspiration,

just droning hours

like a sealed box with him inside it.

He was a body

with a hole

through which to feed and water

and a spirit that lived downstairs

all those years,

and never once took the elevator to the top.

His day was a straight line

from the expresso machine in the morning

to a head on the pillow at night

without a feel for beauty to lead him astray.

Imagination's loss

was perpetual motion's gain.

GRADUATE

Just graduated,

piece of paper,

now what?

after every unanswered question

time begins again -

it has nothing more in mind

than to make me slightly older.