THE GAME’S LAST BREATH
Transfusions come and go like players off the bench.
This drip is offense. This pill is defense.
He’s sleepy in the middle of the day.
Why speak to visitors, when a coma’s on offer?
For the longest time, he’s nothing but breath.
Let others trace it to his life. He’s content to just
let it wander through the body. If it’s bored, it can leave.
People huddle over him. He’s not the quarterback.
He’s not about to call the next play. He’s not in the game.
With his brain closed, he’s not even spectator.
At best, he’s the ball. Quietly, he lets the last of the air out.
John Grey is an Australian-born poet who works as financial systems analyst. He has been published recently in Bryant Poetry Review and Tribeca Poetry Review and has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
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