Light scans

the vast temple

through what

shapes ask of it.


A face,

dusty plain,

appears through

the long shadow

of American industry.


Am I

doing my job?

it asks.


No words of praise.

No acknowledgement

here’s a living soul.




sunset’s easel

and canvases,

none paints

more glibly than

the machinery.


And with noise

not brushes.


There’s confusion.

Worker or widget,

which exactly

is the end product?


John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Visions International.  

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