YOUR HOMETOWN ON A WEEKEND
You stay at home on a Saturday night,
do absolutely nothing,
but still the cops come pounding on your door,
accuse you of what you could be thinking,
then bash your head a dozen times with clubs.
Your sex life is no better.
You had Maureen alone at last –
at least you thought you were alone –
but then your mother dropped down from the ceiling.
Wielding a large kitchen knife,
she scalped Maureen and cut off your balls.
As for church,
the preacher tosses spears at you from the pulpit.
To arrest declining membership,
he needs a dramatic and graphic display
of someone suffering for their sins.
When his best throw merely pierces your left thigh,
he gives the congregation permission
to batter you with prayer books.
That night, you head to Casey’s bar.
Casey’s out of everything but strychnine.
You walk down by the stream.
Mallards peck at you.
A homeless man spits your way.
His diseases land on your bottom lip.
Those clouds of grimy smoke
are coming from where you live.
The local serial killer is sizing you up
from behind a tree.
That growth on your back
is now the size of a watermelon.
But then you see a bright light
in the heavens,
brighter than any light you’ve ever seen before.
A star is going nova.
It implodes all at once, not by degrees.
It never has to know
that it’s Monday already.
©2020 John Grey All rights reserved.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review, and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple, and Steam Ticket.