During the Depression
men in ragged shirts,
soiled trousers,
ratty hair tucked under caps,
in the middle of winter
sit around a fire
near an abandoned quarry,
others ride the rails,
slipping in and out of boxcars
one step ahead of the cops,
travelling rough
from one jobless place to another,
eating out of trash-cans,
lining up at soup kitchens.
In the castle on the hill,
coffins stay closed
well beyond sunset,
in the old abandoned mill,
the doctor shutters
his laboratory,
unable to get body parts,
in the waters of the black lagoon,
the creature is speared for food,
in a graveyard near Pittsburgh,
zombies starve
for lack of human flesh—
either their visual prey
is worn down to the bone
or they can’t tell a homeless man
from their own kind,
hungry for his next meal,
the wolf-man slinks down the hill
toward a cottage—
too late,
the wolf’s already
at the door.
— John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.