CROSSING
Fearful of cars going both ways
on Storrow Drive
with chill wind blowing my hair around,
my lost nerves are already in an accident scene
where I’m the one laid out on the road
while the pale-faced driver of an SUV
screams out – “It wasn’t my fault!”
“Sorry guy,” I try to say.
My body burns with desire
and my brain survives on impulse.
My way forward is often the path
of an oncoming vehicle.
I pride myself on paying the ultimate price,
CHIRP CHIRP
The male crickets are rubbing
their legs together
to make a chirping sound.
Females are attracted by this.
It’s also a warning to other males.
Stay away.
As the sun sets,
the air is dense
with the noise
of macho posturing.
Later the clubs open.
Humans take it inside.
SEPTEMBER MAN
The September sky
is tilted toward you.
It longs for you to reach out
and embrace its low hung wonders
Grey clouds, flecks of blue,
he’s almost a man.
He is a man.
And older than you.
But his eyes,
when they break through,
are on your tangent,
your feminine refraction.
They tease with humility and love.
You grab his shoulders,
pull yourself up.
Forget the humble sky.
The elevation is enormous.
IF FOOD BE THE FOOD OF LOVE
There is a solution to everything.
Is not marriage an amiable resolution?
We get plenty on the table and we eat it.
Okay so that’s a fatuous example.
But we’re showered with love aren’t we?
At least, love tweaked to allow
for the personalities involved.
And our bellies are full.
Our closets are stuffed with clothes for all occasions.
And the gunfire is not for us.
Floodwaters look elsewhere.
So do the repo man. And the investigative reporter.
We live this protected life.
Everything we need is close at hand.
And we’re well-fed. Did I already say that?
Bills get paid. Bed linen is changed.
And we have more than enough commodities.
More than more than enough food.
The bad things that happen to other people
don’t get a look-in at our house.
Not that we’re permanently happy.
But if we’re not, there’s always something in the fridge.
DESERT VISION
Through the fires of sun,
a form, half-human, half-haze,
emerges from the vanishing point of vision,
but can’t quite come together for your squinting eyes.
For all it gives the appearance of approach,
every step forward is countermanded
by the obstinacy of great distance.
You’re sure it really does want to be with you,
but, in searing heat, time freezes, distance unravels,
shapes never quite come true.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review and Flights.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.