Six Poems by John Grey

 

WHAT IF

They're not dreams exactly.

More like "what if "s.

They come to her when

her knees are pressed

hard against the tiles

and her back's bent over

while her right hand

works the scrubbing brush.

There's no changing bedding involved.

Or watering of roses.

Or palms rubbed raw by washing powder.

She's in a bar

in a short short dress.

Her legs are shaved

but her fishnet stockings

don't know that.

Her face is painted

as garish as a clown

and she smells of the cheapest perfume

that ever holed up in a bottle.

The place is crammed

with sailors smelling of fish,

big-muscled construction workers

and truck-drivers too long

away from their women.

And there's a motel next door

that rents by the hour.

But then a bottle of dish detergent

sides up to her and whispers

"how about a quickie, babe."

And a broom gives her the come-on

while a heap of clothes

reaches up into the insides of her thighs.

Her "what if "s don't need any wondering.

They're already here.

And her home

doesn't rent by the hour.

It's strictly by the lifetime.

 

 

THE DANGERS OF LIVING IN SOCIETY

 

Stuck my nose

where it wasn’t wanted.

Had that schnozzle

lopped off for its troubles.

 

And, as for my ears,

listening in on other’s people’s conversations

cost me two good auricles.

Likewise, some peeping tom antics

saw my eyes stabbed, hollowed-out,

by a sharpened stick.

 

Can’t go yapping anymore

because my tongue was severed.

Writing it down is no better.

My arms end at the wrist.

 

These days, I keep my thoughts to myself.

That way, the bastards don’t know they’re there.

 

 

SEPARATION PREREQUISITE                             

 

I have hung around outside the dance hall

without going in

and stood on the banks

of the other side of the river

from the farmer’s market

without no intention

of ever crossing the bridge.

 

I’ve listened to hymns

from a vantage point

in the church parking lot

and sat on a porch,

looking out on a narrow

strip of world

without acknowledging

that I was also part of it.

 

When the city has felt

like an occupation

by foreign soldiers,

I’ve bowed my head,

ignored their weapons.

And when men gathered,

I stood apart.

When women came together,

I fled into the night.

 

I’ve seen ten thousand people

with dogs

yet have never had one of my own.

I’ve been witness to so many

garbed in uniforms

from cops to pilots to boy scouts,

but have never worn one myself.

 

Often, I pass folks

sitting alone at sidewalk tables

but I don’t join them.

Nor do I buy flowers

from the old woman with the stoop.

Nor borrow a newspaper section

from the man in the coffee house.

 

 

SEPARATION PREREQUISITE                                                           

 

I don’t feed pigeons.

Nor fill, with coins, the palms of beggars.

I never reach out and catch the frisbee

as it floats by me.

Nor look in the carriage

at the giggling baby.

 

I merely observe

and then write down my observations later.

Then I set the work aside,

pretend we never met.

 

 

THE JEWELED HONEYBEE

 

The brooch you wear

is a jewelled honeybee.

It pollinates the flesh

above your right breast.

Wings spread wide,

perfect black and gold body,

it goes where you go.

 

It’s a family heirloom,

originally your grandmother’s,

and now a symbol of both beauty

and of passing time,

It gleams more than a real bee does

but has no buzz,

though, from time to time, 

I listen close, pretend to hear. 

 

Like when you sit beside me,

both of us inches from the pin

that breaks no skin,

the bee that doesn’t sting,

the generations that pass along

their simple treasures.

 

Someday, you will pass it on.

Someday begins here.

 

 

MATRIARCH

 

This house was a woman once.

The rooms were her body.

The beds and dressers were arms and legs,

And the windows that face the street

were eyes looking out for threats,

peering in for affection.

 

I didn’t so much live here

as was embraced by the walls,

protected by the ceilings,

steadied by every inch of floor-space.

In my years of growing,

she always made room.

Whatever I did,

she accommodated.

 

I don’t know who it is now.

I walk by and it’s just a house.

The hair’s the same colour

but the cheeks are blue not brown.

And the gate may still be a smile

but it’s shuttered.

It isn’t smiling at me.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Ellipsis. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Red Weather.