© 2011 John Grey

CURE-ALL

Another letter from you,

full of medical advice.

You write to my ailments,     

not to me.

I’m beginning to think

it’s my headaches you miss,

the allergies, the cough.

You lived with them, not with me.

Your companion was the throb

behind my forehead,

the sneezing fits,

the cigarette hack of one

who never smoked.

I’m sure you only pretend

to want them cured

with your new—age remedies,

your lists of pharmaceutical web sites.

If I got better,

you’d be killing your own memories.

A clean bill of health for me

is five years stolen from your life.

You end your letter with the usual

“Love you.”

That’ s another cure that you

don’t really wish for me.

THE GENERAL

Big guy's surrounded by bodyguards.

No one's going to get to him

with a question or a bullet.

He's so cocooned,

the outside scratches at his door

like a dog

but it's another night in the bitter cold

for contact with this leader.

Only the television camera

is welcome in the inner circle.

He grins for the lens.

He reads from an autocue.

His men watch his back,

the audience, his front,

and, in between,

the view's all his.

For six presidential lifetimes,

he likes what he sees.

All work is property of John Grey.

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