Like an umbrella,
I figure our relationship is mislaid
but then you tell me
it’s been a hundred years next April.
In a voice like a manly, energetic
flushing toilet,
I say something like
“but it’s not working out.”
You retreat into that ashen grey
look of cluelessness
where a woman becomes something
only God could love
before reddening,
then spearing me with
“what about us?”
That's when I come up with something like
love is just another religion
and I’m thinking of becoming
a confirmed atheist.
You blubber.
When it comes to tears,
I side with the cynics.
It is not my first breakup scene.
It is not yours either.
We both realize that love can only last
for as long as we keep loving.
And every life is many days,
many ways for some things to end,
others to begin.
To me, it’s remarkable that this lasted
as long as it did.
So if you pardon me, I’ll be going.
Now where did I put that umbrella?
All Rights. John Grey.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Ellipsis. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Red Weather.
