Establishing a Life
by John Grey
Her morning
fits inside a demitasse cup.
It’s a black liquid impervious to light.
She’s a young wife
and a middle-aged divorcee
meeting in the middle.
Her current boyfriend,
a real-estate salesman,
is in the past.
She takes the bus to work.
Weird guys are drawn to a vulnerability
she doesn’t know she has.
She treated herself
to a vacation last year,
a week in the sun.
She spoke with no one
that she didn’t have to.
Not even the guy
who spoke Spanish
in her left ear.
She’s starting to believe
that her life is the only kind
there is.
It’s busy enough to be
only partly lonely.
And there are reliefs that come unexpectedly.
Especially in an unshared bed.
She reads.
She embraces docility.
She doesn’t regret the children
she never had.
She sees the future
as some kind of car
that pulls up at her front door.
She slips inside.
It inches slowly forward
but there’s no one at the wheel.
She has jewels but never wears them.
Her dress sense knows her age
as well as she does.
She has friends.
Some are married.
When they invite her over for supper,
the fourth chair remains empty.
There is a guy in the office she likes
but only to talk to.
Nothing will come of it.
He’s six foot, one eighty pounds
and fifty on his next birthday.
Her world doesn’t have that kind of room.
fits inside a demitasse cup.
It’s a black liquid impervious to light.
She’s a young wife
and a middle-aged divorcee
meeting in the middle.
Her current boyfriend,
a real-estate salesman,
is in the past.
She takes the bus to work.
Weird guys are drawn to a vulnerability
she doesn’t know she has.
She treated herself
to a vacation last year,
a week in the sun.
She spoke with no one
that she didn’t have to.
Not even the guy
who spoke Spanish
in her left ear.
She’s starting to believe
that her life is the only kind
there is.
It’s busy enough to be
only partly lonely.
And there are reliefs that come unexpectedly.
Especially in an unshared bed.
She reads.
She embraces docility.
She doesn’t regret the children
she never had.
She sees the future
as some kind of car
that pulls up at her front door.
She slips inside.
It inches slowly forward
but there’s no one at the wheel.
She has jewels but never wears them.
Her dress sense knows her age
as well as she does.
She has friends.
Some are married.
When they invite her over for supper,
the fourth chair remains empty.
There is a guy in the office she likes
but only to talk to.
Nothing will come of it.
He’s six foot, one eighty pounds
and fifty on his next birthday.
Her world doesn’t have that kind of room.
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. He was recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. His latest books, “Leaves On Pages,” “Memory Outside The Head,” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.