John Grey
May’s Eternal Life
So the time for death drew near,
the body imploding,
the head immersed in thirty years before,
but a sock needed mending,
the ceiling paint was peeling.
Someone had to do something.
Being dead was no help.
So wrinkled arthritic hands set to work
with needle and thread,
brush and can of paint.
The sock could be worn again.
The ceiling would look like new.
She finished the day exhausted,
seated at the kitchen table,
coughing up blood into a handkerchief.
She reckoned, surely, this must be it.
But then a handkerchief needed cleaning.
Our Nightly News, Conversation Style
So we start with the weather
but move quickly onto the stories of the day -
the Middle East, American politics, Wall Street.
Then we get on to the more personal -
my married life, your relationships.
And we typically end-up with sports -
the disappointments,
the optimism that will be more disappointments later.
To each other,
we’re the nightly news.
The only difference is
in the puff pieces.
Instead of a new baby panda
at the Washington Zoo,
I provide a brief update
on a new favorite restaurant.
In lieu of the Kardashians,
you bless me with
a minute or two
of someone called Angela.
And we don't break for commercials.
Just for another sip of beer…
more taste, less filling.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
