I can't get away from them -
TV, the internet, twitter,
even talk around the water cooler -
celebrities have assumed the role
of the center of the universe.
But then you call me =
you're out of hospital.
At last, news sends me a gift.
It doesn't care who's dating who
or wearing what designer dress.
I can imagine you seated on your patio,
family around you,
setting sun drenching your face.
You're coddling a wine glass in your wrinkled hand.
You're distanced from the superficial
by a canyon of heart and mind
The wine, I'm sure, tastes like the earth and growing,
like the land that spreads before you,
a family history in blades of grass and fences.
A smile plays out
beneath your warm farm-girl eyes.
You doze, contented, with the past around you,
dream a year not yet lived.
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.