JOHN GREY

6 A.M., OUTSIDE THE DANCE HALL

The dancers slip away
leaving only the dew,
crystal on the pistil.
The steps are empty.
Even the younger faces
are too old to stay.
The lily’s being gilded
by nothing but sun on water,
a drip to the end of music,
a patter on a silken lip
as the drummer packs his kit.
The wild life’s been pumped
out of the hall
The wax flowers died
in deference to the real thing.
All the beer that ever flushed a face,
buzzed a brain,
pried loose the muscles in the knees,
rests in the sleeping stomach
or bubbles through the sewage pipes.
Only a flower is left
to let down its silky guard,
ripple with the dawn’s affection.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.