Two Poems by John Grey

THUMPING
 
Noise won’t leave me alone.
I step outside and I’m suddenly
in the belly of a drum.
Sounds thump and deafen
and I’m a small boy again
at some rock and roll concert.
Or I walk into a bar
where there’s this band playing.
I order a drink
but the bartender can’t hear me
over the cacophony.
I go thirsty until the set ends.
It doesn’t end.
I’m out on the street
and every passing car
is booming whatever it takes
to burst my ear drum.
Some gang defends their turf
with a knee to my groin
and a mix-tape implanted
in my head.
I stumble home
just as storm rolls in,
no thunder,
just a Ginger Baker solo
from somewhere in the heavens.
I crawl under the blankets
with my hands pressed hard
against the sides of my head.
But my temples are pigskin.
My fingers don’t miss a beat.

ONE GOOD PRESENCE DESERVES ANOTHER
 
His face is marble.
You peer in his eyes.
They're marble too.
There's no way to waken
the hermit in his cave of a head.
He can't recognize you
let alone
laugh at your jokes,
or praise you
for all you've done in life.
 
But he does eat
what they put before him.
A nibble here.
a nibble there.
Like a sparrow
rather than a vulture.
So, apparently,
he's invested in
prolonging his existence.
His expressions just haven't
caught up in that emotion.
They're still back there
in that "nobody cares
if I live or die" routine.
 
You sit beside him,
hand resting on his withered arm.
You feel like one more
of those tubes
delivering fuel
to his laggard bloodstream.
You're not ashamed of his
being in this state.
But there's nothing
to celebrate either.
His body has discharged
all that you remember.
You have to love
what's left.
Or you don't know
what you're doing here.
Just like him.