John Grey

Jammed

Winter 2024

At rush hour, we are all belligerent punks,

jammed from four lanes into two

just before a 95 overpass.

I'm behind a truck overflowing with scrap metal,

its tarp barely tied and flapping like an enemy flag.

On my left, a Chevy is trying to squeeze by

both of us in the breakdown lane.

Guy behind is honking.

He wants me and my late Japanese model

to nudge forward an inch.

Under my breath, I'm like that homeless man

I saw berating the homeless woman -

all the cuss words I never use

come spilling out.

The guy in the Chevy is stuck,

can't get by the truck.

A Volkswagen that followed him

into the narrow no man's land

is now flashing his indicator

like he wants to ooze in front of me

if the scrap metal truck ever moves.

Fat chance, German beetle.

I'm in full military mode now.

Every inch of blacktop can only be won

by sacrifice of blood and sweat

and yes, vocabulary.

Somewhere behind me,

there's been a vainglorious cut-off attempt

One guy is out of his car

and threatening another.

The villain of the piece doesn't flinch.

Nor is he about to roll down his window,

I feel that same rush of blood.

I'm itching to take somebody down

just for having the nerve to be upon

this particular stretch of road

at this very moment.

Of course, when not at the wheel I'm so unlike this.

Remember my patience, my faith, when

everything was falling down around us.

I didn't give our debts the finger.

I didn't swerve in front of your mother

and send her flying into the median.

Everything that deserved

three blasts of my horn

got away without a sound.

Even those rear-enders I took in stride.

But meanwhile, back on the highway,

some guy on a motorcycle

is weaving in and out

of all these stationary vehicles

like he's fresh out of smart-aleck central.

The devil on my left shoulder

would love nothing more than for me

to suddenly pull out and send him flying

over the guard rail.

And yet, you and I live

between our own guard rails.

Anything that veers too close,

I rein back in.

Feedback

John Grey

(Spring, 2017)

You want old. Forget the rheumatic shoulder.

My guitar idol's seventy. You complain

how your eyesight's going but at least it's not

your picking fingers or the hand that once

swooped like a shortstop's glove from fret to fret.

And his hair's gray, what little there is of it.

Same as yours, but the repercussions stay with you.

His paunch, sagging chins and cheeks, put

years on me and every other acolyte

who risked his ears to worship at his speakers.

What's next? A foot too feeble to prime a "wah wah" pedal.

That tight slouched ass wrapped up in adult diapers.

My taste in music already gets a pension.

And its drugs are covered by Medicare

Some favorites kicked off early, overdosed.

But here's a man more at risk of under-dosing.

You struggle with matching names to faces.But what if the golden riffs of yesterday

No longer recognize themselves.

No one's getting any younger is how you tell it.

But really, that's not the feedback I was looking for.