Lazy Joe
Such a sullen beast, that heart,
and fat and listless, gorging on blood
that comes so easy to it with every lazy pump;
and the lungs, more creatures with nothing better to do
that devour great lumps of air. rattle the stuff around
in old cigarette-stained sacs then wheeze it out
like a leaking tire.
And the mind is a creepy blob-monster in a cave.
still and silent but for a long grotesque red tongue
that zaps thoughts like flies:
so what can the body do but obey orders,
slump into chairs, crawl up on sofas.
ooze under sheets, take up space.
Only the mouth protests this languor,
attempts every now and then to fight back a little;
“yes I promise.” it says, and believes,
“I will. I will,” it adds and is never surer;
but gross and slow and unwilling is the soul swine:
when necessary for survival, it sits heavy on his life;
at the first sign of intention, it knows where to find him.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.