The Man in the Attic

John Grey

My fingers tap away until one a.m.,

words sliding off keys and onto paper.

I think of life as poems now,

their beauty, their rhythm.

They stay after midnight if I ask them to.

Time is getting to me so I’ve set aside the beer.

Death’s got a timetable, and I’m penciled in

somewhere between my 50th and 80th year.

Drink was no kind of comfort anyhow.

In the end, the bottle and I had nothing in common.

My pulse won out.

Then there’s the universe, my source of inspiration.

Far from silent…but mournful and holy.

The soul, I reckon, is more honest without alcohol.

I sleep here. My stars are here.

My moonlight is here.

So is the remnants of hurricane breeze

From this place, it’s a billion miles in all directions.

There is only everything.

There is no oblivion.

I tap out messages to God.

And to her i.e. everyone I’ve ever fallen for.

To the heart stopped

and the heart getting a move on.

To the veins, those infernal, internal grins.

It’s all drift, no drama but the shimmer of it.

My voice breaks the silence with childhood songs.

We shoulder the years in different ways.

Yet never forget. The sacred pockets of poetry.

Between sorrow and laughter,

the things undone get done.

Choices? I spin them on their axis.

Success? It’s like a candle flame.

Warm but not something I can ever quite hold.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Flights.