Two Poems by John Kross

                       Fire Hydrant



                                I
                               am
                             either
                        gushing out
                 waves of drowning
           deceit, drenching the people
                   who pass in front
of me, knocking them down, forcing them
                 away- or locked up
                 tight,   heavy   with
                 layers  of   colorful
                 cover   where  even
                your wrenching love
                is       not       enough
                to    pry     me    loose.



The Pining Ghost

I think he likes to sit out back
                          where he once sat
with all his yard in view
   his chair is gone but he is there
                                    he sits in mine
                                   I saw him once
                      while pacing through
the house at 3 am
                      I stopped and stared
                      and rapped the glass
to see if he’d respond
                                                instead ­
he looked away..

       he must have heard novenas
for the dead..

                          I saw his tired stare
                                          the thin hair
                         on his balding head
wispy with static electricity
   the liver spots across his brow
                         a prominent display
of reckless living
                                  his body lay flat
against the chair
              like a life-sized playing card
                        with hands and feet
from Alice in Wonderland

                                            I wonder
does he miss the rabbits?

                 I looked for him again
                                             last night
                           at quarter after 2
        I wanted to tell him its ok
   to use my chair to reminisce..

              nostalgia tends to look
                                            like love
to those who are without..

                perhaps another night
                         I’ll see him there
                            within my chair
and maybe we can talk
I’d do my best to comfort him
              and put his mind at ease
                              about the things
he’s now without
        like this old house he built
                                         I’d tell him
I will be there soon
                                   soon enough
from his perspective
                                           by grace
50 years from mine
               we’ll sit and talk about
                 the days we lived and
loved here..

                             I am not naïve
                 I know he is a ghost
but I am not afraid




John Kross is an aspiring poet living and working in Dallas,Texas.
He has never been published. You can read John's work
and interact with him as himself at www.hellopoetry.com.