Some are big-boned, some are egret-thin.
For every tall one, there’s another squat and dumpy.
Most are brunettes, a few blondes, now and then, a red-head.
Many noses are up, many chins are down.
Some chatter constantly. Others remain silent.
Morose, happy, solitary, cringing to the crowd,
there’s many kinds, and then the subtle variances,
the loud one in a quiet moment,
the cold one who suddenly warms.
There’s a flood, then a trickle, then a flood again.
Sometimes there’s even none, but not for long.
What starts it? Who knows? But, from time to time,
I hear my voice cry out of nowhere, “Come, lie beside me. Stay.”
EMMA GOING BLIND
The dark wants your eyes.
Your pupils don’t know what’s coming.
The faces are about to go unrecognizable.
Better hone up your touch
because, soon enough, the light won’t do.
Sounds are taking on importance.
The TV is killing off your favorite characters.
The newspaper is telling you it’s all a blur.
Color schemes are the enemy now.
Your children are whispering behind your back.
The words “nursing home” pierce your still keen ears,
draw your blood, not theirs.
So what if you bump into the furniture.
If your eyes desert you,
then you’ll learn to see with your knees.
It’s getting late.
Your children need to get back to their lives,
to the plotting of their own offspring.
You look forward to sleep,
your life on equal terms.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.