Poetry by John Grey

Morning Commute

Short blast then long blast.

The ferry’s leaving one side for the other.

Houses behind, towers ahead

and, in between, people reading newspapers…

death, disasters.

Typical morning river,

brown, shivering like jelly.

Homes shrink pale

while even the gray of the skyscrapers glistens.

In the ferry’s game,

it’s a victory for business,

a loss for the kitchen, the bedroom.

And the referee is headlines.

Bribery. Fraud. A killing in a bar.

Long blast then short blast.

Wake up the shore-man with the rope.

No suburbs by this.

Just the monolith jungle

and a ferry tying up to their shadows.

Newspapers are stashed under arms

or tossed in trash barrels.

Death folds into the birth notices.

Disasters sit silent, coffee-stained.