Poems
by John Grey
A Prodigal Son Pays A Brief Visit
When you return from sitting on the seawall,
or the steps of the monument,
or the park bench beside the young woman,
will this kitchen chair still mean anything to you?
Having squeezed the oranges of the fruit-seller,
stared in the window of the bakery,
or walked by the café inhaling that smell
of chicory and hummus,
how will you take to the meal
thats placed in front of you,
that was cooked on this stove,
these hot plates?
Having spent the summer in Rome,
Fall on the west coast,
and winter in the mountains,
what can you think of this tiny room,
with its bland wallpaper,
the old refrigerator humming away,
the photo on the wall of your grandfather?
Youve been all over the world
but were you ever in a womb, I wonder.
A Man Alone
The dark is out
to limit your knowing
is that a tenement stoop
or a grave?
Sure,
the streets lights blaze
but their comfort
is immediately snatched away
by shadow.
Between earth and stars,
street sign and front,
you occupy such little ground.
Any less of yourself
and youd be absent
from this world.
Youre a body wrapped in jacket,
unruly hair, flustered by wind,
blowing out your eyes.
From a dark alley,
you emerge into the riverfront.
You go down to the river.
The sights resume
but underwater.
Death Of A Rock Singer
I no longer play your music
but please dont blame me.
Its the 70s fault.
Theyre so long ago.
But I read the news stories diligently:
where you were found,
who discovered you.
But not the cause of your death.
The laws lips are zipped.
Youve survived the OD years
so it could have been a heart attack,
or cancer,
the stuff that happens to the kind of people
who havent bought a record album in years.
While I was listening elsewhere,
you became mortal.
Once a body of work,
now just your body.
Sled Ride
She's prone on her belly
on the sled
coasting down the gentle hill.
It's her fiftieth birthday,
the reunion,
in an out-of-shape body,
of a childhood skill.
Even at a friendly angle,
she accelerates a little.
There's a moment
when control is lost to her,
and she skims the snow-top
faster than intended.
But then the landscape
shifts into a lower gear,
slows her down,
until she cruises to a halt
on flat forgiving ground.
At her age,
there's still these moments
of release, of abandonment,
but wait long enough
and it all flattens out for her.
Your Triumph
Summer keeps you in its thoughts,
as do my closed eyes,
and the stars that came with you
still permeate the sky.
How long has it been?
And yet, how lucid the image.
Lifting yourself out of the pool,
hair drenched,
face dimpled outwardly
with droplets
I see it plain.
My memory is your triumph.
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