Mechanic and other poems
John Grey
Mechanic
I watch the mechanic from a distance.
Don't want grease on my clothes.
And he don't need a kid getting in the way,
screwing up the job.
Whose idea was this anyhow?
Maybe you'll learn something, she said.
But from a distance half the length of the garage,
what's to learn.
Battery, radiator, what's that?
The arm bushings and the ball joint,
I don't know from sex.
But I can see his legs like a dead man
from underneath the car.
And sometimes his upper arm,
and the tattoo that says "Julie."
And I can hear him curse of course.
After every turn of the ignition,
and cough and splutter of the engine,
a thousand "fuck'"s cannon
off the concrete walls.
So far I know nothing about cars.
But I'd sure hate to be Julie
when she wasn't running smooth.
The Avoidance of Writing Poetry
You wouldn't believe the lengths
some people go to
to avoiding writing poetry.
Look at Dave for example.
Instead of crying into his keyboard
over the beautiful woman
in the park opposite his apartment,
he's approaching her.
And if he strikes out,
he won't rush back
to tearfully compose an ode
to the unfairness of the world.
No, he'll try again with someone else.
And what about Ruth.
She stops to smell the roses of all things.
There's no attempt on her part
to type "Rose" on a clean white sheet of paper
and attempt to smell that.
And when did an anti-everything rant
ever leap like an angry wounded beast from Jerry's printer.
He's too busy working to get better candidates elected
Not even short oblique lines
that would take a Navajo code breaker to unravel '
are good enough for the likes
of Rita or Joanne or Ryan.
They prefer conversation.
And it's not just good poetry
they avoid composing.
Bobby pats the dog, says "Good boy."
He doesn't try to make it rhyme.
What's wrong with these people.
Must they always leave it up to the poets.
So Dave gets the actual girl, Ruth buries
her head in genuine flowers. Jerry
really does something about it,
Rita, Joanne and Ryan make my ears
perk up from a mile or two away...
"John doesn't know what he's missing."
And then the dog sidles up to me,
aching for a pat.
Sorry mutt. I haven't time for you.
Just time about you.
Coinage
She was there the day the word
"floozy" was officially coined.
It was 1911, two years after
the word "gaffe" came into legitimate usage.
For twenty four months,
folks imagined that the gaudy way
she dressed was merely bad taste on her part.
For twenty four months, they ogled her
as she strutted down the sidewalk.
But then, in 1911, how they glared.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, playwright, musician. His latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. Recent work of his was published in The English Journal, The Pedestal, Pearl and the Journal Of The American Medical Association.
Photo "Blue Rust-it" by Bella Dante.
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Poems Copyright © 2007 John Grey. All rights reserved.
Photo Copyright © 2007 Bella Dante. All rights reserved.
