John Grey


The grass is like a dull brown corpse.

The mower’s spinning blade is the final insult.

Up and down the street, a father trains his son to drive.

I can recognize the learning curve.

The wheels flattening on asphalt.

Hubcaps glistening in the sun.

They’ve been doing that for as long

as some songs have stayed in my head.

There is purpose to this afternoon after all.

Going back and forth over the same landscape

is not as pointless as it as first seems.

Up from the west is the wind itself,

struggling to find something in my yard worth puffing at.

What can I say? There’s been a drought?

The truth is that people around here

have their own way of blowing stuff around.

It’s suburbia.

A kid is making the most of the time his father’s still around.

I am going over something that doesn’t need going over.

                     How’s it going, Ray.

                     Your boy looks ready for the Indy 500.

                     We could sure use some rain.

                     You know me. I hate being cooped up inside.

                     Oh that. Just some song I can’t stop humming.

                     Can’t even remember the name of it.

Not for us, the lights of galaxies.

We have our own bulbs to turn on.

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