Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

A DRIZZLE POEM

It’s drizzle, the kind of rain

that insinuates more than it dampens.

The sky’s the color of gray pigeons

that wallow in small puddles, 

and as steady as the side-walk creeping snails.

Those out in it, mostly treat

the weather with indifference, 

pretend they know how to walk between drops.

Weeds lap it up. In this gentle spit,

they have found a fellow traveler. 

Some do take to shelter, 

in this case, the very old.

They’re hunched beneath the awning,

as the crowd moves quickly 

back and forth in both directions.

As in rain, as in life, they’re inured to 

being unnoticed. It’s drizzle. Like 

a curtain continually lowered.

Some hide behind it.

Some stride within it.

***

THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY

It was your birthday yesterday.

Friends gathered somewhere 

but it wasn’t in your 

third floor flat.

The phone rang 

but it was only your mother.

Something about the silverware

that belonged to your Aunt Doris.

Nothing to do with you

just turning thirty nine.

You cooked your favorite

chicken parmesan 

but the sauce tasted flat

and the pasta was chewy.

You lapped it up anyhow.

The wine helped.

Later, you sat down

to watch television,

with remote in hand,

flicked through the channels

like they were years of your life,

never stopping long on anyone,

for there was nothing of interest,

and no button to take you

into the realm of future programming,

where maybe, just maybe,

something could catch your attention enough

for you to stay with it.

One card did arrive three days before.

It was from the life insurance company.

A note to say how glad they are

you’re still alive.

It’s always good to hear it from somebody.

***

JUST WHAT YOU DON’T NEED, A SIMPLE DISCOURSE ON COLOR

When I wake in the morning,

I don’t feel white.

Still sleepy, maybe.

Grumpy sometimes.

But not white.

Even when I look 

in the mirror,

I don’t see white.

If I was in the mood

for facial color schemes,

the visage peering back at me

would just be pinkish-brown.

But I don’t feel pinkish-brown.

My friend Ray

says he’s black 

almost all of the time.

Even if he’s not 

thinking about it,

other people remind him.

Not just white folks he says

but other black folks.

Ray’s not actually black.

More of a coffee-brown.

But such nuances don’t 

travel well around here.

Ray’s a photographer.

I asked him a “what if” once.

My question: you walk into 

your favorite coffee shop

and there’s two tables

with an empty chair at each.

At one table

sit some of your photographer friends.

At the other,

some of your black friends.

Once you’ve bought 

your coffee, who do you sit with?

Ray scratched his head.

I told him that there’s no wrong answer.

He said, but I’m black

so there must be.

***

MY PROXIES

Sorry, mosquito

that I crushed on my arm.

And trail of ants

that I stepped on.

I was raised 

to respect all life

but reality drew the line

at insects.

And petty tyrants

in the work place.

And road hogs.

And lawyers and politicians.

And liars. And cheats.

Or anyone I had in mind

when I was crushing 

and stepping on.

***

I SAT BY HER SIDE

She awoke,

saw me for the first time in her life.

Her previous lover

had been a legendary being…

at least, according to the stories 

he told of himself.

I was from a smaller world

of solitude and art.

I did not know her when we were youngsters.

I didn’t even know her from the day before.

I wasn’t a great man

but I would admit to,

in my meandering and musing,

being not quite normal.

Her ex had started at the top

and dwindled over time.

I promised a steadiness 

even if it mingled fact and fantasy.

She awoke,

and I was there.

Nobody else was.

Sometimes,

that’s how these things work.

***

Bio: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

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Setu, July 2023