Sun is out there somewhere but not shining.
Air has that patina of hard wet rain.
He sits on his porch,
walking stick at his side,
pipe in mouth,
searching for the foothills
through the streaky gray.
This is all he has to talk to,
to make love to –
a scene out of an unsealed crypt.
But would a perfect day be any better?
No, blue skies are not for him.
He cannot stand their lusty crowing.
A man’s life, he figures,
ought not just reflect surroundings
but be in on the construction.
ingratitude and loss of faith –
cloud cover’s in its element.
The weather gets it right.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and California Quarterly.