July 22, 2004

Aw hell.

Why not force more poetry on you? My thought matrix isn't projecting too well into prose these days...
        Mr. Eugene Gray, Realtor

Oh those days spent huddled
listening through ducts from the basement--
"Mr. Gray is coming."

The terror we all felt; this sinister
gray man, his gray suit, his felt hat--
My sister whispering:
"Mr. Gray is coming."

That doorbell still rivets me, that old
electromechanical clang. Annunciation:
"Mr. Gray is coming!"

Poor man, we hated him as the devil.
Now he's dead; I hold his card and know this:
Mr. Gray isn't coming.


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