amphibi.us » »John Grey

In Sickness

Shannon Peil — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:30:56 +0000

It’s no longer your ex-lovers
but body parts that carry the conversation.
It’s not the drunkard
who never worked a day in his life
but the varicose veins in your left leg,
the chest pain that hits you
every time you climb stairs.

You sit in your kitchen holding court
with your cronies still living,
the good times you shared
plopped into the ash-tray with the ash,
while your arthritis
goes knee to aching knee with theirs.

It’s no longer Peter the Rat
but old age, the grizzly bear.
Andy left years ago,
taking his rusty utility van with him.
But the persistent headaches moved in
and they won’t ever leave.

Once you complained about
the lack of kisses.
Now it’s the army of pill bottles
at attention on the side table.
There’s a pill for everything
that ails you.
And for everyone that ails you,
there’s the past.

© John Grey, 2011

[others]

Bingo Night

Shannon Peil — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 19:25:38 +0000

In the church basement,
the bingo is about to begin.
No one bothers
to ask God for forgiveness,
merely for a card
with the right numbers.
The priest comes by,
grin wider than his collar,
blesses the crowd,
every last wallet
and pocketbook.
Church was never like this,
thinks one middle-aged woman
as she plays ten cards at once.
An old man is thankful
that gambling’s no sin
when the Lord gets His cut.
The sacred is delighted
to be secular
every second Thursday night.
Religion never felt so lucky.
The Trinity may be three across
but five in a row is better.

© John Grey, 2010

[others]

Headlights

Shannon Peil — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 16:39:32 +0000

Sure my hands grip the wheel,
anything to convince myself
I’m steering this contraption.
You sit beside me, neat as your
fingers around a cigarette,
as the coils of smoke
that rise to the ceiling,
pass through the metal.
The dashboard grins up at me
with a smorgasbord of lights,
of indicators,
nothing to tell me where I am,
just the speed of going nowhere,
how much gas i have left to get there.
Your last words zip by
like a sleeker, faster model,
shake me off course,
or shove from behind,
make me go faster
than my intentions,
then push hard against the front
like a brazen isometric
exercise in pain.
Mile after shattered mile,
another highway victim
counts his life into the statistics,
with caustic eyes,
short-circuited breath.
And here’s you staring at the road ahead,
as if you are the only one
with a right to a destination,
and me, stunned and fearful,
these nights when the deer in the headlights
is the one driving the car.