Everything Has Changed

by John Grey

Nothing has changed.
The sea's still dark.
The air's as damp
as a flooded basement.
And he swears
that it's time for him
to smash somebody's jaw.
A man is only a man. he says.

Nothing has changed.
The wind is fierce and salty.
A faint smile hangs around his face.
A fist jumps into his hand like a gun.
But it's the muzzle of his cheeks
that smoking.
He feels a hot dishonest pain
like a knife in his gut.
Forget the hand.
He fumbles for it
so as to stab somebody.
The grayness of her face
floats across his disturbed vision
and disappears.

Nothing has changed.
Bats whir in the dark.
The jetty juts seaward.
He slipped on fish-slimed boards
coming home.
His knees are bruised
and his whole body smells of ocean.
An irreverent woman could drown in him
if she's not careful.
But she is careful,
acts as cautiously
as a cat on an icy sidewalk.
"Where does it hurt?" she asks.
He falls into her arms.
A faint ghost of a tear
trickles down between
his check and her hair
like a fishing boat in fog.
By the time it drips from his chin.
everything has changed.