Poem – MISS JULIE-ANNE (By John Grey)


She pours drops of whiskey

on the withered rose petals.

Then wields the hose

with a cigarette

flopping from her lower lip.


What doesn’t intoxicate her flowers,

she drinks.

Ashes fall onto the buds.

The bees will have to suffer

for their pollination.


She passes the graves

of all her cats,

apologizes to

the tiny crosses

because the bottle is now empty.


She remembers all

the crushed birds

those felines

dragged into the parlor.

They thought

they were doing

her a favor.


On the mantle

are photographs

of her parents,

both passed on.


And the skull of a bird,

a parrot that never did talk.


It’s a strange household.

Attention to detail

reveals itself in death.