Gloom was a cloud now it’s a ceiling.
It sure sits heavy on the body, on the mind.
And marriage is too dumb to get out from under.
It’s trapped by the couch, the arm-chair.

We’ve become our taste in clothes, our eye for furniture.
We wander, pick at things like home’s the city dump.
If we needed critics, we would have had children.
We had years instead and don’t they have our features.

Those that are here have mostly left.
They migrated into the past because dreams won’t have them.
Watch them go, they form a V like geese.
So young, they know no better than to still be us.

Maybe they’ll call or write, no they’re too busy.
They’re making love on sand-dunes and every night’s an island night.
Probably looking in each other’s eyes and grinning.
Gloom was a ceiling now it’s a cloud again.


© 2006 by John Grey. All rights reserved.