Three Poems by John Grey





Travelling cheap,
seeing the continent.
We sleep, we wake,
we move on.

Maps are to be happy in.
Where can we live
but where we happen to be.
To think that

this rhetorical question
has France and Germany
knowing we’re near skint
and yet begging us to come.


She scanned the heat-shimmered road
a hundred times,
many mirages, little traffic.

The table was laid
for a homecoming.
But the slats in her bedroom louvers
was the scene of the most activity.

While her bedroom did its best
to shine its purple beacon,
her heart was still and open enough
to accommodate

a small blue Japanese car
pulling into her driveway
any time now.



The hard ground
is far too sinister
to even feed
the roots of roses.

So why should it
accommodate you
in a deserving way
when all it has to offer
is a wiggling nest
of indiscriminate worms.

A sliver of what we felt
and acted on remains
but memory can go no further.

It’s starting to drizzle.
Rain may temper this ground
but it will never civilize it.

Teenage lover,
your hole in the ground awaits.
It’s the final act,
the one without you in it.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.