A couple kiss in the park.
Wind sweeps a blue cloud by.
Citrine glimpses of half-dozing owls
gleam patient with the smacking of lips.
Kids only know a hill as something to tumble down,
not a path where there’s no going back.
The lovers attract footprints and paw prints.
They’re stared at as if they’re centering an enormous painting
with oaks and elms, pines and greenery
and New York’s west side for backdrop.
An old lady is snapping wedding pictures in her head.
Yes, a little boy is sickened
And an uptight mother pulls him away.
But his older brother is breathless,
when he’s not gobbling up their stolen moments like popcorn.
One thinks it’s unhealthy.
Another, that there’s no redemption.
Most get it. Leaves fall. People need to give their lips a workout.
It’s seasonal. It goes away if you just ignore it.
The two break apart and merely stare into each other’s eyes now.
There’s a whole list of attitudes that sip at the font
of even that most simple exercise.
Same as when they walk away holding hands.
Reactions to love are manifold
but mostly anything but love.

John Grey is Australian born poet, playwright, musician, Providence RI resident since late seventies. . Has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Poem, Agni, Poet Lore and Journal Of The American Medical Association as well as the horror anthology “What Fears Become” and the science fiction anthology “Futuredaze.” Has had plays produced in Los Angeles and off-off Broadway in New York. Winner of Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999. I collect early editions of MaAd Magazine.

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