"Uncooperative" by John Grey

Uncooperative

The sky is clearly disinterested
in the earth and its people on this day.
It does nothing to communicate grief.
It's just not thick and damp and grayly overcast enough.
It's distinctly blue and flush with light.
Not tuned in. No empathy. It merely is.
And that's the worst of any nature.

Sorrow could have done with a snowstorm —
icy sidewalks, mourners taken out like ninepins.
Or even-dangerous roads.
I would have preferred a slipping, sliding hearse
to one that merely takes the shortest route
from church to cemetery.
Another five, ten minutes with the body —
why not?
But it's in the weather's best interests, apparently,
to be done with all this.

Where's the sun's severe face?
Why aren't the houses weeping?
Why can't the streets mutilate themselves?
And I expected more from the birds.
But all they do is chirp their silly mating calls.

Sad fact is, if tears are to be shed
then it's all down to us.
Only our faces are willing enough
to encourage pain.
Even as the priest speaks beside the gravesite,
there's not a blade of grass, an oak or pine,
that bends the slightest.
Only we look down into the hole
where this life, where all lives, are headed.

Even someone in our entourage whispers,
”what a lovely day."
So typical of life —
it must have the last word.

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, U.S. resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. His latest book, Leaves On Pages, is available through Amazon.

Headshot: Gale Grey

Photo Credit: Staff