John Grey: Six Poems

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review

THE CARD GAME

Ten p.m.,

wife watches TV,

it's a man's kitchen,

four in all,

each hunched behind

a wall of quarters and dimes

and a cool glass of beer.

Radiators thump,

beagle sniffs each shoe in turn,

police siren in the distant night,

eyes on the dealer

as he slaps cards face down

on the table.

Four look at their hands -

one's face is blank

as a waked corpse,

one smiles smugly,

one's eyes travel back and forth

from card to card

like a witness at a police lineup,

one uncorks a breath

for all to hear.

GRAVEDIGGER

Sweat seeps through forehead redness,

strong wrists join at the spade handle,

steel blade chips into soft clay,

tosses earth on top of earth,

and a deep hole emerges.

Worms slither away from the onslaught.

Breath is red and black with soil.

The spade cracks against a rock

and every bone shudders.

Strong sun overhead.

A man could use a little breeze,

more shade from the willows,

maybe some water.

No more purpose though.

He already has that in spades.

SUBURBIA

Here’s where husbands and wives go

to live their separate lives together,

under heat-lamps, before the television,

on the telephone, in the garage,

knee-deep in the garden

or at the card table with the guys.

It’s all fenced in

so as to look like it’s

holding people to their word,

but that’s mostly a façade,

like the tiled roofs,

the dully painted walls,

all a paean to the idea

that everybody must be somewhere,

so why not here,

in the vicinity of someone else.

There’s even kids to share around.
And summer vacation,

the perfect opportunity to move

the two for one deal elsewhere.

Longings are never discussed.

Dreams remain unanswered.

Occasionally an argument arises

a necessary assertion of self

to whoever happens to be there.

DAVE’S DEAD

Streetlights yellow as sun.

Dave's on the sidewalk - dead -

then six feet of cemetery grass,

Dave's buried - dead -

no wonder

his favorite drinking hole

feels empty

even though

it's thronged

with drunken guys

talking up old exploits -

faithful, soused admirers -

everyone's got a story -

but he's as dead

when they're finished

as when they began

and he'll be dead

when the bar closes -

dead come morning hangover -

dead when the new day demands

whatever it is

living people do -

and, from now on,

they’ll do it

without Dave.

GRIEF

Despite the music playing in the background,

nobody was dancing to it.

A few moved here and there,

mostly a shuffle toward the door,

the subtle kind

where it's not apparent

that they're leaving.

And there was Aunt Doris,

only seen at weddings and funerals,

the haughty carriage of her head,

and the raspy sound of her breathing,

like a file on prison bars.

Her presence was confirmation

of the pleasures of being somewhere else.

I joined the escapees in the parking lot.

Outside was as gloomy as inside had been.

Fog dripped from the pines

that misted off into nothingness

toward the distant town.

The air was drizzly.

The mood depressing.

My car, in the darkness,

was more hearse than Toyota.

"I hate wakes," said one of my cousins.

I hated death.

It amounted to the same thing.

I headed home

and not even the sports talk on the radio

could do anything for my grief.

I'd remain upset that he had died

despite the better recent showing

of the home team.

It was hard to see through the damn fog.

Lights were everywhere

but there were no faces.

Either time would have to heal

or the weather clear.

I drove toward

the most likely to come sooner.

LONER

Townsfolk didn't expect a tornado.

After all, there wasn't the sniff of one

in their entire town's history.

No flying gas pumps,

soaring cows,

houses lifted from their foundations

or swirling cars.

Sure they'd suffered through

a drought or two

but they figured

the weather was on their side.

No one could imagine

horses slammed against tree trunks,

coffins bouncing down Main Street,

trucks careering through cornfields

or siloes spilling their guts.

Townsfolk never said it

hut they just assumed

that it wouldn't happen

to their tiny

out of the way burg.

It never did either

except in the head

of the angry friendless boy

imagining all this.

It never did

but not for want of him

cussing and pleading.