FLASHBACK
You paraded under stars.
Aldebaran, Antares and
Betelgeuse.
You were ecstatic enough to be drunk
on
Jack Daniels, Pinot Grigio, Jose
Cuervo.
You swayed beneath like-minded
trees,
elm, oak and ash.
You were fresh-faced, innocent,
sixteen,
and were named Anne, Christina and
Michelle.
And the only witness to your
joy
was me, me and me.
I'll never forget that time.
The many times won't allow
it.
REPUTATION
I'm always staking it.
Sometimes in a piece of
paper.
Sometimes in a serious
conversation.
When I wake up in the
morning,
my shadow carries more
weight.
But then reputation begins
to involve itself in
proceedings.
It answers the telephone.
It powers up the laptop.
It even reports, without
shirt,
to the bathroom mirror,
attempts to pass the
physical.
My wife is in the kitchen making
coffee.
She seems unaware of me
but already a cup awaits,
emboldened with my
character.
And there's fried eggs, appropriate to my
stature.
Sure, she loves me as a train
wreck
but, to be honest, prefers someone of good
standing,
in the household, in the
community,
in the bathroom, shaving last night's
stubble.
And there I go measuring my romantic
repute
with a kiss on her left
cheek,
risking my good name
with a curt opinion on the
news,
swallowing breakfast at the vulnerable
edge
of my preeminence.
And then it's out into the
world
with all the other
personages.
A renown passes me by.
A self-dignity walks ahead of
me.
I'm greeted at the office
by distinction, magnitude and
prestige.
Such stress, we're all just
one
callous pinprick from our value's balloon
deflating.
Truth is, at heart, we're contemptible
trifles.
But please don't tell my
reputation.
I'm all it's got.
I ASSURE YOU
Life is like that
even in a bank branch.
You can count money all day,
stamp receipts,
smile at customers
or walk the floor
with a make-believe pistol
on your hip
ensuring no one steals
the deposit slips.
Life's like that
even when you go out to eat
with your favorite guy
or go home to
your wife's frozen dinners.
Life is like that
even when you're a homeless
guy
and living under a bridge
or a rich bitch
driven around town
in a Rolls Royce
and tipping with hundred dollar
bills.
It's seventy degrees,
twenty percent chance of
rain,
sunset is at 6.05
and the trains are running
a quarter hour late.
Sometimes life
hides behind numbers.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published
in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with
work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California
Review and the Oyez Review.
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