Some People You Don’t Know
Men on horses, in britches,
staunch black caps atop their heads,
shouting “Tallyho”
and riding off behind the hounds
to corner a fox or two.
And there’s people on golf courses,
though I know your brother Chris
tried out his lousy drive
at a beginner’s range.
But I mean real golf courses,
greens cut within an eighth inch of their lives,
and bunkers and ponds
and NBC cameras parked among the trees.
And there’s actually couples who sit on balconies
and sip cocktails.
And others who study stock ticker tape…
well check up on their holdings on their cell phone
at any rate.
Some even do simple things
like collect shells at the shore.
Or they take their kids to zoos,
spend hours staring at the elephants,
or are thrilled by what’s most human
about the chimpanzees.
You don’t know these people.
They bird-watch.
They read books on American history.
Some are doctors and lawyers.
And there’s this game called croquet
where you tap a ball between hoops
with a mallet.
The only requisite to playing it
is not having a care in the world.
Let’s face it.
Outside of Roy and the beat cop,
you only know you,
the half-face staring back at you
from the job lot window.
Now I can tell you what happened to the other half.
I borrowed it for this poem I wrote
for these other folks
about some people they don’t know.
“Tallyho,” they said.
The All Night Diner
Everything is changing but this.
The stools, the booths,
the countertops,
are as they were before the war
though which war nobody can remember.
The department store closes an hour earlier.
It’s the recession, so they say.
The chic coffee shop begins its day at 7.00 a.m. now.
It wants to catch the off-to-work crowd.
But the diner’s still open all night.
And the floor tiles are black and white
like the movies used to be.
I can’t dance to the music anymore
but I can still sit at the pace
of a cup of black coffee
I’m aging in the mirror
but not in my half-reflection
in the plate glass window
Time may ask me to move on
but the waitress lets me stay.
The Rite of Morning
Interesting, what will look you in the eye:
a kettle, a gas bill, a common kitchen implement.
Nothing is as disengaged as you might think.
Even the man in the mirror, once he’s
done shaving, will line you up in his sights,
stare without blinking for as long as it takes.
Everything’s demanding honesty from you.
And just enough pride
to keep you coming back for more.
The newspaper says, “Read me.”
The cereal refuses to be eaten by anyone but you.
The coffee could stir the blood of any person in the city
but you’re the one it chooses to ignite.
And there’s that man in the mirror again,
matching you comb for comb.
His lips don’t move but his eyes say everything.
You’re alive. Now live with it.
Australian born poet, John Grey, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become” with work upcoming in Big Muddy, Prism International and Pinyon.
Hypertext Magazine and Studio (HMS) publishes original, brave, and striking narratives of historically marginalized, emerging, and established writers online and in print. HMS empowers Chicago-area adults by teaching writing workshops that spark curiosity, empower creative expression, and promote self-advocacy. By welcoming a diversity of voices and communities, HMS celebrates the transformative power of story and inclusion.
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