While Wondering How Much the Family House Will Fetch

By John Grey

Swimming pool, algae skin competing
with chlorine for greenness; the concrete,
once as hard and fast as rules, now cracked
here, there; rusty recliner, think I’ll recline
my rust; the sun at least, though ancient,
feels new; no gas grill, no family, just Esmeralda
baking up a tan; almost naked, hips pointed
away from having babies, bikinied breasts
oblivious to eyes and their deceitful hormones;
so this is the old house, to be divided up
four ways, two sons, two daughters,
I’d take the pool if I could gouge it out
of here; where we live, it would be found art;
suburban glory, do laps, just don’t drink the water;
top it up when it leaks; relax in it and
bronze the paleness out of you;
the past is dead; long live its status symbols.

John Grey has been published recently in the Georgetown Review, Connecticut Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal, with work upcoming in Poetry East and The Pinch.

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