Saturday, April 14, 2007


Gray mist hung over the place
I once called Home
Just as it did
In fresher winters of youth.
The banana tree that bore no fruit
Still stood beside the house.
The rest was strange to me --
Neglected, disheveled, collapsed,
Like rags clinging
To a toothless, rasping bum
Whose face is too familiar.
And a world that seemed so huge
And ripe for winning
Was just a stunted miser,
Clinging like dark, gray mist
To a place he now calls Home.

Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written sometime in the 1990s.

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