You’re hanging in the closet now,
a flattened clammy mooring
of silkworm sweat and tears.
The times have not been kind.
Long before dress down days,
business casual broke your spirit.
You must have known it was inevitable,
those nights I jerked you from my throat
the moment the office door pinged tight behind me.
Stuffed in jackets, tossed on back-seats.
or on the floor more likely...
if it was me, I’d know.
You’re in the closet with my father and my mother
and my sisters, the all consuming rack that saves
the past for some far future it will never know.
Not even the wedding of friend or family
will make me grab that noose again.
My Adam’s apple rejoices. My jugular salutes.
Limp and brown, wilted and blue,
you must believe you are enduring,
reckon my funeral can’t come quickly enough.
Ah tie, so cynicism is your final resting place.
That’s what comes of knowing I wouldn’t be seen dead in you,
but unfortunately I will be, the day death ties the knot.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, but a US resident since
the late seventies. John works as a financial systems analyst.
He's recently been published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and
Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.