Marathon It was my first marathon and also my last. I may have looked the part as I lined up at the start in my shorts and T shirt with a numbered bib hung around my throat but I confess up front that I am no more a runner than a goose is a card sharp and I only entered that twenty six mile endurance race because someone called Elizabeth was competing in the distaff side of the event and she dared me to add my sweat and muscle to the men's parade of running fools. I did actually manage a decent pace for two miles but then I walked the news three while clutching my gut and then finally tottered off to the side of the road, through the crowd and into a wine bar, tearing off my number as I did so. Two Chardonnays later, I stood on the sidewalk and watched some of the woman jog by. I tried to spot Elizabeth but she was buried somewhere amidst that mélange of grunting, puffing females. I caught up with her later and she beamed with pride, having finished the course and beaten her best time. I asked her if she'd like to go somewhere for a wine. But she longed instead for a a rub down, a shower, a change of clothes. I apologized for being out of shape but did allude to some nonsense about "giving it my best shot." I wasn't fooling her though. She didn't return any of my calls. I made a vow to seek out a woman not quite so athletic, one without courses to finish and times to beat. Instead, I encountered agendas, expectations and commitments. And not a finish line in sight. Bad Boy To Garden Flowers My boisterous armor drops at flowers. Smart as I think I am, I'm no better than the bees, stealing nectar for my phrases, adhering to the petal's lip, the bud's bright core. A sensation tears itself away from thought. How idle does the cadence of my heart make me? Long way from broken vase and father staring down at guilty grimace. A distance that can only be measured in toilet paper stuffed down drains, the singed tails of cats, stolen cigarettes. The past could play some mean tricks but the present assembles half-way down the lawn. I do no harm here as robins be my witness. So a boy is his own penance but show me where it says so in the neat-mowed grass, the blazing sun, the shreds of cloud in pale blue sky. Yes, I admit, I stole the dollar from his wallet. But if this be my confession then it's money sweetly spent. Post-Honeymoon We came back from our honeymoon with tans and new t-shirts to an airy and bright apartment made ready in our absence, with these beautiful cast-iron columns, a fully equipped kitchen with groceries in the cupboards, a bed with soft mattress, and a comfy parlor where we could cuddle up and watch our brand new color TV. I thought to myself that loving someone, now that we shared the same name, would be easier from then on. But after a week or so, I confessed to her, “I don’t know how to do this.” “Good,” she replied. “Neither do I.”
JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
Confessions 