“Where I’ve Been”, “The Coal Miner” and “Prism”

By John Grey

Where I’ve Been

I was in a diner

and morning clientele

were a cross-section of inner city lowlifes.

The waitress’s name was Sally 

and she spilled coffee all over me

and still charged for the privilege.

Besides which, the eggs were runny

and the toast as black as the cook’s teeth.

One customer was bleeding

but it didn’t seem to worry him at all

and another guy jabbered to himself

about a Martian invasion

and the hooker didn’t care who saw

her junk scars 

or the upper third of her thigh.

And I confess I slotted into this 

neater than you can imagine 

and I’d advise you not to touch me 

just in case some of that grease rubs off.

That’s where I go every morning

as if the heart of me

gets its charm from being hard and tasteless 

and cheap as the one napkin they ration per customer.

In fact, any time with me

is the first light of day

and any place I go to 

dwells in the shadow of the blackboard 

and its $2.99 specials.

There’s sizzle here with you sure

but you should see and hear that filthy grill

nuking three rashers of bacon

You’re softer sweeter 

a thousand times more edible than those hash browns 

but they’re part of the deal.

Sure, your tears flow

so much easier than that ketchup.

I just don’t know what to spread them on,

that’s all.

---

The Coal Miner

There’s a coal mine worker 

behind that scarred face,

red and grey 

burnt into his seams 

by the years,

lungs eaten away by dust,

hands blistered,

palms parched,  

surprised, despite his ghostly pallor,

that he’s lived so long

in that house 

below the hill,

the polluted moon,

hanging onto enough strength 

to get out of the darkness 

each morning,

instead of silently slipping away

like the others of his race.

A grandfather,

you need to look beyond 

the deep-set creases 

to get to the family eyes,

nose and mouth,

ignore the job for a moment,

the one that so obviously cruelled him,

dwell on the opportunities 

he gave the ones who followed.

---

Prism

Red on the outer rim,

violet on the inner,

the prism disperses color.

Here, at my own antisolar point,

trees flame pink,

rocks glow yellow,

brief patches of grass are blue

where green should be.

But what else is there to do

on a slow January day?

The weather’s too chilly and slight

to get involved in anything.

All around me 

are sloughs of slobbered snow.

And beauty requires neither comfort

nor a mind,

merely a tool

to bend light to its will.

Late afternoon,

air does mirrors’ bidding.

I have wavelength corralled,

polarization in my fingers.

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