John Grey

J o h n  

G r e y

Riker's Island

The basketball-court beats.

Cell-block rattles.

Mess hall is all clatter.

Workshop is sweat and steam.

Then there’s solitary:

beat, rattle, clatter, sweat and steam.

The Rose He Gives You

You cannot tell the beauty

from the pain.

You reach for the petals,

are jagged by thorns.

You wallow in the scent

and the sting.

Your love is part smile,

part grimace.

You hold the one who gave it to you

in just such a way,

bleeding the sweet,

tenderizing the sharp.

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