Poems
by John Grey

 

Refugee

 

that river was there

in front of me,

begging to be crossed,

and I figured that

if I held my head high enough

then maybe I could do just that

 

not that day, but someday

 

the kind of thought you have

before life leaves you with

a sore back and a limp

 

but some things only happen once

like a good woman

or a clean break

 

eventually, the ones nobody wants

figure out how to stay

where they’re barely tolerated

 

it’s not acceptance

but it’s a roof over the head

a place to sleep

 

and sometimes,

if you keep your mouth shut

and don’t stink too bad,

they’ll even pay you to stick around

 

 

 

 

 

The Hungry Man

 

To the hungry man with the rifle,

whether his prey was a duck,

a goose or a turkey,

was immaterial.

 

He was after meat and muscle,

protein beating its way

through the air.

 

He lined up his sights

on a place in the sky

where he anticipated

such a combination

would, at any moment, be.

 

He held his breath, said to himself,

“If only, just this once,

the heavens would get

their dumbass act together.”

 

But he was shocked

to the very wobble of his trigger finger

by the creature that returned

his startled gaze with such a sad expression.

Not a plump bird. Not a hearty meal.

It was Monique, his ex.

She hovered there.

His heart froze.

 

Then she gave a shrug, drifted off,

was soon well out of range.

“Hell,” he thought.

“It wasn’t meat I was after.”

He was hungry.

But this was hunger of a whole other kind.

And the world…it had its surprises

when he’d figured

there were no more to be had.

 

The sky was empty now.

No flocks, no Monique.

But it still had possibilities.

And he had never been more hungry for them.

 

 

 

 

 

A Car On Empty

 

My advice,

stalled car in the desert,

is to curse your driver

but since you can’t,

I will do it for you –

damn but I’ve never seen dumber.

 

Who’d ever think

there’d be a gas station

on a flat stretch of lonely road

just when the warning light came on

to tell the doofus

he was going on empty.

Life’s not like that.

Sometimes, nothing turns up

and you’re done for.

 

I feel bad for you, car.

Your mechanics are not the issue.

It’s because of that fool behind

the wheel that you can go no farther.

The intense heat is no help.

Nor are the stands of prickly cactus.

 

He’s looking into the distance

on all sides

for the sign of a house or a store

or another vehicle with fuel to spare.

But his eyes can’t even

conjure up a half-way decent mirage.

He’s alone in the world.

He’s going down

and taking you with him.

 

Look around.

Human carcasses and the likes of you

are scattered across the desert.

The fool is not a recent invention.

 

 

 

 

 

As A Result Of Your Leaving

 

Driven

by restlessness,

by the long reach

of your supposed

golden age past

and uncertain future –

 

your eyes,

reddened,

turned from me

out of a kind

of self-imposed indignation.

 

Then after you,

the rooms sagged,

grew cold.

 

And the cost,

unimagined by you,

remained with me.

 

I asked the question,

“Why? Why/ Why?”

 

No bed,

no dressing table,

no table and chairs,

ever bothered

to reply.

 

 

 

 

 

The Heat Of A Solitary Summer

 

Summer in residence, hot morning,

welcome to my sealed jar.

Light climbs a ladder,

breaks into the walls and floor

but the bed remains unlit.

 

The outside momentum

is as thoughtless as ever.

The coastline cries out –

hedonism this way!

Cars don’t need to be asked twice.

I stay behind.

The mind has its own weather patterns.

The forecast is confinement.

 

I have always been this way.

After all the other loners

have made their case,

I’m the loner with no story to tell.

Companionship has always

been a kind of pantomime to me.

It’s a series of gestures

more suited to making

shadow puppets on a wall

than any true connection.

 

Even affection, the kiss, the embrace,

has always left me wondering

why the body,

mine or another’s,

should be the vessel for such mystery.

 

And yet the body persists, doesn’t it.

Maybe that’s its own kind of hedonism.

What I’ve called solitude might only be

the mind’s long apprenticeship to itself.

What I’ve called distance

is just a way of touching the world

without disturbing its surface.

 

It’s summer.

It’s stifling inside these rooms.

Inside me.

Maybe I need to get out more.

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