Sunday Morning 3am
You haven’t lived until .
you’ve pulled a drunken woman
from a car,
half-lifted her up a
long thin staircase
like a sack of coals,
dumped the gibberish of her body
on a couch,
sat back and watched
head and body
go at each other
like punchy fighters.
Nothing like
that curious mix
of passion and self-pity,
One minute she wants to tear
the clothes from your body.
Next, she’s a burst water-wagon
of tears.
She’s sweet then she’s a horror.
She’ll do anything
except there’s nothing she can do.
You haven’t lived until
you’ve seen someone be
all of themselves
and then more of themselves.
And then, in the morning,
she’s so sick and sorry.
But that’s her too.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst in the US. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.