t’s the truth,
the ferns do shadow me.
Tiny microphones in their stamens.
reporting me to every other plant extant.
But, aside from that,
I have a good job and a nice apartment.
And last night,
I heard the cry of something in the walls.
And a funereal melody
coming from the piano
in the room below mine
and there is no room below mine.
Do you come here often?
I often drift out
to farthest outpost of all being
where, from my exalted heights,
I watch the asphalt rats feasting,
ply, with my eager fingers,
the forest’s thick green uterus.
I come from a good family.
I shouldn’t be telling you this
but I’m in love with
the insistent slap of water on sand,
anything that’s both digital and insatiable,
and the kettle’s whistle
when it’s timed to a keyboard.
And given a God-like wind,
I can land any helicopter you can name.
I respect women utterly.
And I shower twice a day.
How about back to my place
for a good crackle from the hiss of steam,
an exhilarated dip in the fountains of fire,
the kiss of bone and air,
the light on the Italian piazza,
the dust march of the distant donkeys.
I promise they’ll all wear condoms.
* * * * *
John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.