John Grey’s poem: A Georgia summer house

The house is on a lake in Georgia.

The dock rises and falls with the water level.

The boat is tied up to a wooden pole.

Only the heron fishes this day.

The lake is half-swamp, half fresh water.

There’s gators in there somewhere.

Their loud spring mating cry

is like the belch of the world’s fattest man.

They may not attack humans with those ferocious teeth

but their ugliness is as effective a weapon.

When they appear, it’s bad news for something.

In summer, the heat shows no mercy.

It’s a gator at heart with huge sweaty suffocating jaws.

I’m eaten, then spat out when it’s time to sleep.

Then mosquitoes move in on me. 

My hands play Twister ‘til morning.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available on Amazon. Some of his works are coming up in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

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