By John Grey
It’s possible that, even now.
you had nothing left to say.
that I was wasting my time
by pressing my finger to my lips
or covering my ears with my hands.
Could be that, as I rushed from the room,
slammed the door,
that I was leaving behind silence,
that the drive out into the country
was quite unnecessary, that the next
angry word out of your mouth was not due
for another month or more.
It wouldn’t be the first time
that I was sensitive beyond all reason,
that my bones shuddered,
flesh trembled, heart nearly
took out my ribs,
after you had already called me
all the names in your arsenal
and the worst you had left was a glare.
So being fifty miles away,
deep in the forest,
by waterfall and pond,
thick tree cover.
serenaded by tanager and thrush,
lying on the soft, green bank,
closing my eyes,
forgetting all my troubles,
was a superfluous exercise
because I had no troubles –
but, my dear. I had superfluity
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review.