Dear Louise

I have nothing to report but this.

I feel dull
and the weather is belligerent.

Yet I still keep my eye out for bird-life.
Not just the bluebirds and the tanagers
but even the lowly sparrows.

I’m not so dead that I cannot dream.
And I regularly walk to the pond and back
despite the foul smell from the factories.

A breeze in my face
is the next best thing to a kiss.
But a strong wind
is not a breeze a hundredfold.
In truth, it diminishes me.

I can’t afford a sailing boat
and I cannot reach the clouds.

I do smile at strangers
but reciprocation is not expected.

I have enough clothes for one body
and, money-wise, I hover above the poverty line.

I suffer from some things and I’m ignorant of others.

I’ve tried self-improvement programs
and, though I’m still myself, I haven’t improved.

It’s beginning to rain.
That’s what I meant to tell you all along.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and  Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and California Quarterly.