In the Kitchen
After twenty years
and two deaths,
you still descend the stairs
each morning,
report to the stove,
refrigerator and kitchen table.
Same sky,
light or gray,
same wallpaper
since you first set foot on
the same linoleum.
There’s traffic
like there always is.
And neighbors
who aren’t going anywhere.
And there’s the lawn
that’s cut weekly
in the spring and summer.
And the garden,
you bring colors to
like dressing a child.
And the maple tree
that takes its instructions
from the seasons.
The twenty years
slow you a little.
And the two deaths
even more.
But they can’t keep you
out of your kitchen.
For here’s where morning begins.
And days may be sadder
but you will not stop them happening.
Doorman Tales
The doorman is on nodding terms
with the actor who was nominated,
fifteen years ago, for a Tony.
The rich widow ignores him
but her poodle barks in his direction.
The young couple,
he, a trust beneficiary,
she, a lingerie model,
merely add him to their list
of building amenities
they can boast about
to their friends.
One old guy talks the Mets with him.
A young stockbroker sometimes
tosses a buy or sell tip his way.
The retired movie star
does her best to conceal her face.
Actually, she’d love to be recognized.
But, at 86, she can’t be.
The passersby merely wonder
what kind of people are too lazy
to open their own door.
The doorman used to wonder
that himself.
Then he went job hunting.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
After twenty years
and two deaths,
you still descend the stairs
each morning,
report to the stove,
refrigerator and kitchen table.
Same sky,
light or gray,
same wallpaper
since you first set foot on
the same linoleum.
There’s traffic
like there always is.
And neighbors
who aren’t going anywhere.
And there’s the lawn
that’s cut weekly
in the spring and summer.
And the garden,
you bring colors to
like dressing a child.
And the maple tree
that takes its instructions
from the seasons.
The twenty years
slow you a little.
And the two deaths
even more.
But they can’t keep you
out of your kitchen.
For here’s where morning begins.
And days may be sadder
but you will not stop them happening.
Doorman Tales
The doorman is on nodding terms
with the actor who was nominated,
fifteen years ago, for a Tony.
The rich widow ignores him
but her poodle barks in his direction.
The young couple,
he, a trust beneficiary,
she, a lingerie model,
merely add him to their list
of building amenities
they can boast about
to their friends.
One old guy talks the Mets with him.
A young stockbroker sometimes
tosses a buy or sell tip his way.
The retired movie star
does her best to conceal her face.
Actually, she’d love to be recognized.
But, at 86, she can’t be.
The passersby merely wonder
what kind of people are too lazy
to open their own door.
The doorman used to wonder
that himself.
Then he went job hunting.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.