THE DRIVER HAS A SON
In the car,
I still suffer from weight and pressure
but at least I can steer them
or, on long stretches of straight highway,
feel what unleashed speed
does to their measures.
Maybe you were even conceived in a car,
on the scratchy back seat,
with your mother giggling and grunting,
and me like an exhaust pipe
smacking along the asphalt,
noisy and sparking.
You could, even be a half-orphan,
thanks to the car.
I could have enclosed myself in the garage,
turned on the ignition,
and left our relationship from there.
And though you weren’t born in the car
it was close run thing,
a mad dash to the hospital
on a rainy, skidding night.
In the car,
the brake and the accelerator
are as close as your mother and I once were.
My feet seem to know that
even if my head forgets.
Seems like every time I drive somewhere,
I see an accident,
crumpled metal, broken glass,
a body on the road.
Sometimes, I wait and see
just who the sirens come for.
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT
The horror of being close. Breath comes back to my
lungs trembling. Is she the one I’m left with
after all the soldiers lie dead in fields?
Prefer the rose and daffodil making a point for me
through dusk’s shadowed face. Am I? Should I?
My flesh is being held for ransom. My faith
has melted into globules of spit.
Smell and taste and touch and. . . .what’s the deal?
Is landscape dead? Cattle country,
western desert, was it all a prison to begin with?
Dusk’s shadowed face. Noon’s forgetfulness.
Morning’s diffidence. Meanwhile, lips
terrify me into submission. Hands turn me paralytic.
Her head on my arm, she’s after my pulse.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
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