GATHERING THE EGGS
My lover sings, picks hay from her sweater.
She has been to the barn to gather eggs.
It’s overcast but she doesn’t bother
with ordinary electricity.
Instead, she lights a scented candle,
watches the wax drip,
sates the kitchen with sweet maple.
She is a shoebox filled with moments like this.
A collection of tintypes,
each in the act of doing something different from the others.
She could pick roses,
toss the petals across the bed.
Or massage the knots out of my back.
Or play her flute,
those light, airy notes
that link up all the times
that we have spent together.
Of course, there are always eggs to gather.
But she might come back inside whistling.
Or reciting the poems of Burns.
This morning, she’s breaking the eggs
on the side of the fry pan,
humming along as the yolk
flows down the sizzling sides.
From the organic vessel,
to the melody, the steam,
the oozing color,
she’s got everything covered.
There’s not a moment without her
that can stand up to a moment with her.
The dog has chewed your favorite shoe
The factory’s shutting down.
Half the town is out of work.
That damn mutt.
Still, that’s what you get for leaving him
alone in the house all day.
And losing your job…
more fault at your door.
You want ten times what
the company can pay some kid in Asia.
But at least
you’ll be home all day now.
You can watch the dog,
keep your good stuff
out of his teeth.
But what about that other dog.
The giant dog.
The dog with a head the size of a wrecking ball,
claws as big and sharp as bulldozer blades.
There’s nothing he can’t get
his jaw around.
He can chew up industry.
And he can spit out the likes of you.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie
Review and failbetter.