Pg. 22 — UFO by John Grey
I was on the roof of
the old brick building on Miller Street
staring up at stars.
In nothing but flannel pajamas,
I hardly noticed that
the wind whipped
in between the buttons
like a greyhound after
the shivering rabbit of my skin.
My mission was to be
first on my block
to see the falling star,
the comet, the UFO,
whatever the night sky
offered the one who stayed up
long past the sleeping many.
I’d climbed the stairwell,
hoisted myself up the rusty ladder,
through the trapdoor
that creaked, protested,
like it hadn’t been opened in
a hundred years.
Fists tight, legs taut,
I urged the twinkling black
to taking pity on a solitary boy.
I longed to tell the kids at school
what I alone saw.
I wanted to be coming to them
from the farthest point in their universe.
have them listen to me
like they were looking skyward.
John Grey
John is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, The Dalhousie Review and Round Table Literary Journal. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.
