Witnesses
Doorbell rings.
Jehovah’s witnesses
have come calling:
a well-dressed couple,
with two children tailing behind,
even the kids done out
in their best suits.
They smile.
Their skin gleams with sincerity.
And I get the same speech
my next-door neighbor slammed the door on
before they had a chance
to hand him their literature.
It’s Saturday morning
and better listening to their spiritual spiel
than cutting the unruly backyard grass.
And they’re not asking for money.
They just want my soul.
Why not?
I have one to spare.
And how often do I see a family group
that can stand so calmly
in warm July weather,
in heavy clothing,
without being at each other’s throats.
Really, they should ditch
the whole Jehovah thing
and get into counseling.
They wouldn’t have to say a thing,
just be like a living diorama –
the ideal family.
I could exhibit them
to some people I know.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work forthcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
