| It was the apartment
that overlooked the power-station,
our year round Christmas tree
with its crackling baubles,
its black smoke angel,
its decorations flung carelessly
like aspirations, like love.
Sure it was mean streets
outside
but inside was meaner in a sweeter way.
Somebody told me if I lived with you
I'd either find myself or lose myself in you.
Someone gave me some bad information.
I was driving taxis,
second cousin twice removed to the real money,
some of it touching down occasionally
in the rear-view mirror, furtive and nervous,
uneasy to live with apparently.
The tips weren't big
but occasionally,
my curiosity about people was showered
in silver, details of other lives
that jigsawed into mine,
created some kind of momentary whole.
I even took that back
to the relationship,
drove taxis in and out, up and down
for those times you hailed me down,
bamboozled me with another version
of your story.
I never did find myself
but I learned the short-cuts.
Didn't lose myself in you either
but I got you where you were going
once or twice.
John Grey is an Australian
born poet, playwright, and musician. His latest chapbook is "The
Bum On Your Avenue" from Phony Lid Publications. Recently,
his work has been published in New Collage Magazine, The Aurorean
and Weber Studies. |
