By John Grey.
Awkwardly, anxiously, while assuring
my life is packed in pillows,
bearing up my head, their precious cargo –
heavy weather has closed the exits –
I’m barely resisting the temptation to turn to mulch,
hardly see the years floating
buoyed by my limited success –
beat of wings outside, some soaring,
but I’m not in the game
because I’ve kept on betraying arid betraying
and now there’s nothing to go back on –
just a couch
and a shadow of my old purpose –
hot and lazy,
times shower in my sweat.
before letting me go,
before taking the future with them.
JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and the Coe Review.
Photo by Mike Linksveyer.