by John Grey
Night rolls in
and the landscape’s no more
than scattered farmhouses,
interspersed with darkness.
and the landscape’s no more
than scattered farmhouses,
interspersed with darkness.
Is anything central?
Everything’s just
South Street. North Street,
East and West.
Nothing is Main.
Wherever I go,
the town center is elsewhere.
Is it fate’s doing
or just a quirk of the locals.
The people are private
by nature and design.
And they are quirky.
They happen to me
more than they welcome my presence.
If I ask directions,
they send me down the lumpiest of trails.
Or they scratch their heads,
like the letters you wait for
that never arrive.
Yet, folks seem wise.
And present no immediate danger.
You should read my city poems.
They wouldn’t have even got me
this far.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books — Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself — are available through Amazon. Work is upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.