John Grey’s duo of poems.

The Bar Singer

She doesn’t sing beer

but she may as well do.

Nor whiskey either

but that’s how the

patrons hear it.

They get high

on the guitar twang

but the rasp of her voice

is the true source

of their drunkenness.

The guys don’t figure

her looks for much

but, like alcohol,

it’s not the shape

of the glass.

nor the colour

of the brew,

that takes her audience

out of themselves.

She’s like a belt,

a shot of something.

She helps them forget

with songs of

what it’s like to remember.

The Silence Of A Doctor's Waiting Room 

These are the people

you don't know,

who you will never see again.

A couple of them have colds,

one a cut on the head,

but most hide their diseases

under their coats

like kittens.

The majority will survive.

Some will die.

You don't know which is which

so you don't start a conversation.

Do you really want

the woman seated next to you

to reply to your "Nice day"

with "There's nothing

they can do for me."

You'd still be grinning

like that's what's nice about it.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

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