Julie Grey

Collection From July

Sundays

I think sometimes of the Sunday Times
over breakfast at the cafe on the corner.
I would pour over the real estate section
as you would read to me from the technology page.
Jay would refill our coffee cups in between stints at the cash register
& everyone that worked there knew our names.
We were a couple & it was so great having a place
that we could call our own.

Evenings after work
you would work on your PC & I would work on mine.
Side by side we shared the frustrations & joy
of new programs.
You discovered the Internet long before I was ready for it,
& I was so jealous of the time you spent with the Australian
comparing the cost of a loaf of bread & a gallon of gas.
But it was fun, and most nights we settled for a sandwich for dinner.
You, because you didn't want to take the time to eat,
& me because I didn't want to take the time to cook.

When I see another full moon & don't have anything else
to occupy my mind,
the day has been another long & frustrating one,
there is no one who would understand why I feel so tired
just from sitting at a desk all day
even if I tried to explain it to them,
I miss you.

Not your touch so much any more.
I have forgotten what it once was about you -
about your touch, that could enflame me.
But the conversation.
The excitement of comparing experiences in new software -
who found which new shortcut first -
& that first tennis rally, fuschia, & barbecue of the year.

Once upon a time,
you were my best friend.
I could tell you anything & everything -
you never thought for one moment
that I needed you to slay my dragons or solve my problems.
When I read the Sunday paper now,
the first thing I read is the technology section.
It reminds me of fresh coffee,
eggs & friendly faces.
It reminds me of happier times and you.

Looking in the Mirror

I ran into an old friend today.
We didn't grab each other for a hug
upon recognition,
nor did we sit over steaming mugs of coffee
comparing notes of the lost years.

I'm not sure he even recognized me, at first.
He read my work on a poetry page
on the Net.
He e-mailed me that he liked what he'd found there
and asked me to come for a visit
if I was so inclined,
and was going to be in the area.

I managed to work through the day
without causing too much financial disaster.
I could barely quell the excitement I felt.
The anticipation of sitting at my keyboard
waiting at home.
Finally. The trip to his home page,
and then his words like falling silver
running on my screen.

Reading first one poem
then another
with tears running down my cheeks as I relived
with him again the anger,
the frustration, the pain.
The loneliness, the loving never quite
as we had expected it to be.

How I longed to put my arms around him.
To tell him that I understood.
That I had been there, too.
Same story, different characters.

So close, yet so far away,
all I can do is reach across the cyberspace
with words of encouragement & compassion.
While our styles may be so different,
the thread of similarity courses through our poetry,
thick & wide.

Frighteningly familiar.
We've walked the same roads
in mirrored worlds.
There's something comforting in knowing
that all the while I cried,
I was never really alone.

And Still We Dance

Sometimes I stand back
& watch the dance of our relationship
as if I were a stranger.

Interesting, the way we glide around
each other.
One time gently, like two butterflies
sharing a common flower, with its
open petals to the sun.
Always taking turns.

At another, protectively armed,
like opposing warriors forced to fight
on the same side against a common enemy.
Do we realize, I wonder, that we do battle
with our backs to each other?

But always cautiously, it seems,
neither one completely trusting the other.
Searching for hidden meanings?
Perhaps fearing thoughts better left unspoken?
A hidden agenda.
Future pain.

And yet we continue to dance.
Interesting.

copyright ©Julie M. Grey, 1996 ******** Julie M. Grey******* http://www.aa.net/~greyone *** or *** ********Grey Design******** http://www.aa.net/~greyone/design.html
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Last Updated August 25, 1996