John Grey
Here in the bayou,
the moon is cold
but nothing else is.
Two men in a canoe
pull into shifting shore,
with a creel of catfish.
Foggy dusk disappears
into dark.
Shadows creep along
past mangrove, ibis,
an amazing variety of reptiles,
only the banks kept alive
by the narrow beam of a flashlight.
A day of sweat is over,
time to feel cocky
as they slouch by a homeless camp
with their catch.
They’ve been doing this for years,
like their fathers, grandfathers,
like the gators, muskrat and weasels,
anything that gurgles, sneaks,
ultimately rusts.
The swamp becomes the
one great mass of nothingness
and everything
while houselights dawn
in windowpanes.
The air is thick enough
to punch a hole in it.
Sleep cannot be counted on.
Filleting fish will have to do.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.