Not when doormen spit on you,
cars skid through puddles
just to soak your new suit.
You’ll be working for the office boy
and some dying child in the Sudan
will give him his orders.
Homes won’t open to you.
Even the subway train will
boot you onto the platform
three stops before your own.
You’ll walk out on a hot day
and the breeze will stop blowing.
Birds, if they open their mouths at all,
will sing dirges.
Your trophy wife will run away
with the trash collector.
Your bank account will shrivel
like falling leaves...
in July of all months.
Forget the government.
They won’t help you.
They’ll be paying back the bribes.
And not the church.
They’ll be too busy
selling off their artwork
to people with no money.
A world turned upside down
won’t suit you I am sure.
The sidewalk will step on you...
on the crack in your head...
bad luck for somebody.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial
systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry
Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in
Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
