DATING A RICH GIRL
The driveway circles a rocky
outcrop.
No matter how rich you
are,
granite doesn't take
orders.
Out of the car,
legs like stumps
growing
out of my own
footprints,
I look up at the
north side of a huge frame
house,
twice as wide, as
high,
as the one I live
in,
rough pine
shingles
weeding out the
weather,
brown with cream
trimmings,
stained glass
windows,
projecting staircase
block
down to snow's deep
silence.
But if the eye's to stay with a
home,
it must have its
color:
ochre, dark olive, chocolate and
rust -
shades of
sensitivity.
And if there's a need to feel
poor,
count the
cornices.
How do you knock on the door of
such a place?
What right has this
fist?
A circular alcove, dark entrance
~
this is not the way to any place
that will have me.
Maybe I should think of myself as
granite,
the felsic, igneous rock that
holds up these fortunes.
Hello there, I’m more than just
your daughter's date.
I'm a tor, a
massif.
If it wasn't for the likes of
me,
you'd be living at the bottom of
a sink hole.
I can see Anna through the second
floor window.
Once I would have tossed a pebble
to get her attention.
But I don't want to leave my feet
just yet.
FOR THE SAKE OF
ARGUMENT
This is the story my tongue sat
on way back then.
I had an audience ready and
waiting, eager to hear every detail.
I could have been big man in
school yard.
Anyway, we're seated together in
the dark back seats of the movie theater.
No, I haven't got to third base.
But I've made contact
and, with my speed, I figure
there's a good chance of an infield hit.
Christine's beautiful. And
classy. Maybe too classy for baseball metaphors.
But she breathes in my right ear.
And I'm so nervous, she
breathes for both of us, I look
down at my hands. How creepy they are
in the shadow. Like giant
spiders. Are these the creatures I want
to represent me down the contours
of her knee? They wouldn't know
what to look for, and if they did
come across something worthwhile
by accident, they'd have no clue
what to tell my brain.
I'm thinking maybe I should grow
up a little first.
But then how do I keep her close
and interested until I do.
I try to watch the movie. It was
her choice. Syrupy music. Older people
making love. She sighs when stars
kiss, tenses up when they don't.
It's as if she's up there on the
screen while I'm pinioned
between arm rests. Luckily the
other woman shows up and
the love-fest is disrupted.
Christine is clearly disappointed.
I put my arm around her to
comfort her. Her head falls on my shoulder.
I'm thinking wait until I tell my
buddies about this. But then it hits me...
no... no...for the first time in
my life…wait until I don't.
THE BALD
GENERATIONS
How much of this can I
take...
the old man's bony hands
reaching down to
grasp the child's pink
fingers.
How much symbolism
can one man
possibly
consume in a day,
one who should be
looking back,
making the most
of what's left of his
memory,
the other,
with so much for
his
virgin instincts
to
gravitate towards,
surely more out
there
in that floating
paradise
of color, shape and
light
than my
grandfather's
mischievous
dentures.
They're both bald
as billiard balls.
Maybe that's why
they take their
cue
from each other.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US
resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and
Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and
Louisiana Literature.
