no more than the extinction of all this old baggage,
the separation of bric-a-brac to the dumpster
and, after the usual faux-gothic ceremony,
the body into the ground.
It’s retrograde if anything. Birth in reverse.
And worse, it will be permanent.
No one to love or link up with.
Nothing to fear. Nothing to feel.
A pain-killer that does its job too well.
And then there’s life.
Sure it involves other people
and sometimes alcohol is a necessity.
But there’s always scenery.
Even the most moth-eaten kind keeps the eyes amused.
And gas stations that are open in the early hours of morning.
Late-night diners and movies on big screens.
It’s an adventure even if Spielberg doesn’t direct.
And it gives a guy an outlet for all this breathing.
The worst party I was ever at is still an improvement on
the best funeral I ever attended.
That affair was in East Providence.
No women. Lousy food. Dull conversation. Not near enough booze.
But everyone invited made it home okay.
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.