When the kitchen tells the future by John Grey

It’s afternoon in my kitchen.
Shadows come into their own.
One creeps across the floor.
Another shrouds the refrigerator door.
The one that I thought could only
spread horizontal, finds its vertical muse
at the iron feet of the stove.
It so easily swamps that metal monster
in its dim chill, as if the damn thing
never threw off a lick of heat in its lifetime.
Spice-rack’s no problem.
Cupboards are a breeze.
Even my own body, to which
I attribute many triumphs,
is overwhelmed by gloomy shade.
Details go, senses collapse,
my world is overrun with nothingness.
Sure it’s just my kitchen
on a late winter afternoon.
But until it really happens,
this is what it’s like.

I am not Superman by John Grey

I’m just a man in a garden,
blue jeans, green sweater,
standing in freshly turned over soil,
rake in hand.

The lilac bush is sprouting.
The lawn has learned
to love the sun again.
The bag of fertilizer
rests against the fence.
Seeds, like talent show contestants,
drop into tiny ditches,
prepare their summer act.

This is what you married,
not some guy in tights and cape,
who can lift you like a leaf,
carry you up into the tree tops.

But your world must embrace
the likes of me
if anything’s to grow.

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