The air makes certain
that everyone is threatened.
The space between people teeters –
we chew fear,
rinse with the dictator’s beer.
Looking behind,
we see a life we got used to,
that now stares sullenly
like an abandoned dog
crapping in its water bowl.
The lungs count their breaths –
what if there’s only
a dozen or so left?
Be grateful for that dozen,
says the blue suit on TV.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, currently unemployed but has worked on various shifts in bank back rooms.