STUFF IT

He hits the deer at

forty miles an hour

on a country road.

He slams on his brakes,

but too late.

He can see the animal

in a ditch at the side of the road.

Sure he feels sad.

And guilty also.

But the incident touches 

something in him,

makes him think of 

his late Uncle Arthur,

the taxidermist.

He can imagine himself

dragging the corpse behind him

up the path to Uncle Arthur’s door.

“What have we here?”

Arthur would say in his Swedish accent.

“Maybe you can do the head for me.”

Nothing like some creature he killed

staring at him from the parlor wall.

But there’ll be no salvaging this roadkill,

Moonlight twinkles in the beasts’ big eyes

as they stare up at him.

And the deer whispers, with its last breath,

“You asshole.”

For nostalgia and regret,

this will have to do.

THE HOMELESS WRITER

I admire shelters. A roof’s worth ten thousand lines 

of free verse at least. Actually, I envy them. 

Their walls, their warmth, the way a lock and a key connect.

When they’re done, there’s color on curtains, 

on quilts, on cheeks, as well as on the rooms. 

I write a poem. There are no word stains.

And the housed always look the part – 

the brushed hair, the steady gait, the calmness in the stare. 

The unhoused blend in. The worst that can happen to me 

is to be picked out in a crowd.

And the housed sell their time. The homeless are lucky 

if they can give theirs away.

Best of all, the housed hang their photos on walls. 

When the homeless hang, a silence has to be sent for.

LIVING ON THE STREETS

Dawn is at its most primeval – 

time moves on from despair into defiance – 

a figure on the street corner –

eyes cast down but spine still upright. 

If it weren’t for the rising sun, 

this shadowed soul would have no rival.

The lull is misleading.  Not while hunger scurries 

through the alleys below. Eyes and ears miss nothing. 

They’re always in the struggle.

Hands twitch like trigger fingers. 

Breath rises and falls against the cold air. 

The body is about to endure. 

It has strength enough for the weaknesses beneath.

RENEWAL

Shower and shave.

The chin is smooth.

The skin is clean.

None of it is brand new

but what can you expect?

Some grime rubs off,

a certain firmness

keeps its cool around the bone.

But no sponge, no blade,

is worth a damn

against the years.

Not even a hug

and the words,

“You’re still the man

I married”

or three chords strummed

on an old guitar

and a verse of

“Tangled Up In Blue.”

But I still pop into

the bathroom each morning,

make a pretense of preparing myself

for the day, the world.

I figure I can fool both of them

into thinking it’s someone else,

younger, fitter,

more dashing and handsome

than three movie stars

and a boy band.

But I’m older than I was

the last time I did this.

And sure,

as the cliché would have it,

deep down, I’m wiser.

But wisdom’s just another word 

for knowing the joke’s on you.

Why not? I need a good laugh.

IDENTITY

Usually I’m nothing much.

But sometimes…

hey, I admit it, I’m great.

But mostly I’m a pinch of salt

somewhere in the Atlantic.

Or a drop of rain

in a downpour.

Or a molecule.

But then there’s moments when

I’m not just the molecule,

I’m the entire thing.

Most of the time,

when I’m around,

you don’t know I’m there.

To be honest,

I hardly know I’m there either.

I can be so insignificant,

I’m next to non-existent.

But I have it in me

to be existence.

Or, at least,

where it goes from here.

What I am,

I have no idea.

Unless I’m an idea.

Then I know.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.