Childhood, three out often,
Would have been less
but for skills at rugby.
Education, predisposed to checking
the facts out for myself.
Family, ubiquitous
though it wasn’t a word I used
for the first twenty two years
of living with them.
Shoplifting, it wasn’t me,
it was the other kid.
First love, somewhere between
Archimedes principle and
the effect of kryptonite on Superman.
Who wrote the word “fuck”
on the schoolhouse wall?
Not I. I wrote the word “Diane”
in a note-book instead.
Holidays at the beach,
various lectures on the requirement
of rubbing lotion into every inch
of exposed flesh,
Almost drowned.
Kicked a dead jellyfish along the sand.
Job history, burger flipping to number crunching.
Dating, burger eating to number crunching.
Sex, illustrations in Kama Sutra do not
tremble in the boots they’re not wearing..
Marriage, burgers every night
until gift of cooking book from mother.
Number crunching. Burgers only every second night.
House, I am my father five years or so before I’m born.
Pregnancy, anxiety and bewilderment.
Child, four out often.
He’s absolute crap at rugby but he doesn’t
steal from shops at least.
Middle age, no affinity for other middle-aged couples.
Old age, middle-ages couples not so bad
as previously thought.
Death, not enough data to give score.
Do they play rugby in heaven?

***

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian born poet and US resident since the late seventies. He works as a financial systems analyst. His work has been recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review, and Albatross, with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock, and REAL.