Thursday, February 18, 2010


by John Grey

Late at night,

alone in my kitchen,

I imagine I talk with

my jailers,

raise questions about

the waning of the light,

the lengthening of shadows,

even the radiator burps

and the creaking of the floorboards.

I’ll pour them a drink

and slide it across the table.

I’ll thank them for

removing the handcuffs.

I’ll show them something I’ve written.

They’ll ask,

“What do you think about

the Turkish man

beaten to death by skinheads

in Germany?”

I’ll say, “Is that what

I’m in here for?

To come up with an answer?”

As usual, they fall asleep waiting

for my reply.

As always, I finally

stumble up to my bed,

slam the cell doors behind me.

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