John Grey

Something’s moving through old town,
a shadow, a shape,
a humming sound.
 
Some people see,
others hear,
some sense it like the breeze.
 
If they’re not thinking,
it’s the default in the brain,
not feeling,
it takes over the heart.
 
You can tell by the eyes,
blank as brick walls,
if that something’s moved in.
 
Or an ashen look on the face,
a double shake of the head,
if it’s being resisted.
 
But that something is patient
and insistent.
Eventually,
everyone succumbs.
 
Avoid old town
is my advice.
Unless, of course,
you’re so weary
of piloting your own life,
you’re willing for this other
to take the wheel.

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Harpur Palate, and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.