There's Other People in the World
I could see people running against the wind,
the cold like blood staining their lips.
Their flesh flapped, their bones shuddered,
their eyes tapped the sidewalk
like blind men's canes.
They were dead but for the fact they moved.
They were dead but for the fact
they still had somewhere to be.
They slid this way and that,
up alley, down street, shaking and spluttering.
You would think the traffic was aiming at them,
that the world was like an animal
beneath them and around them,
a wild creature angry and afraid.
Meanwhile, you passed me drinks, slowly, assuredly
as if we were part of something else,
as if our bodies didn't slap against cement
like rain squalls,
as if we didn't stumble every second step
to be sucked up by the bus wheels,
the garbage trucks, the cop cars
with their sirens spinning and wailing.
You said, "Drink this, you'll feel better."
The world had such thirst
but only mine was sated.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poem, Cider Press Review and the Evansville Review.
I could see people running against the wind,
the cold like blood staining their lips.
Their flesh flapped, their bones shuddered,
their eyes tapped the sidewalk
like blind men's canes.
They were dead but for the fact they moved.
They were dead but for the fact
they still had somewhere to be.
They slid this way and that,
up alley, down street, shaking and spluttering.
You would think the traffic was aiming at them,
that the world was like an animal
beneath them and around them,
a wild creature angry and afraid.
Meanwhile, you passed me drinks, slowly, assuredly
as if we were part of something else,
as if our bodies didn't slap against cement
like rain squalls,
as if we didn't stumble every second step
to be sucked up by the bus wheels,
the garbage trucks, the cop cars
with their sirens spinning and wailing.
You said, "Drink this, you'll feel better."
The world had such thirst
but only mine was sated.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poem, Cider Press Review and the Evansville Review.
