By John Grey
I can turn any animal I see into a person.
And vice versa of course.
Plus I know the names of the trees,
some of the wildflowers.
(My Audubon Society field guide
fills in the rest.)
As for the constellations,
I can sift through the night sky
and pick out the zodiac.
Add to this, senses in good running order,
and a mind that knows how to act its age.
(And any other age when required.)
My past carries around a library worth of books.
Then there’s my imagination, my dreams:
most folks’ outliers but my core.
And I’m willing to confess those times
when the devil’s horns looked good on me.
Or the rare occasions
when I stood with the angels.
I can exaggerate love,
make it sound like hate if I have to.
Pontificate as if I really know something.
Or, with a helping of faux modesty,
pretend that I don’t.
Based on this,
I can never be a plumber.
But a poet’s vocation
is one that is open to me.
So don’t call me
if your pipes are leaking.
That is, unless you say “pipes”
but you mean something else.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, 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.
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