She had looks. She was smart enough.
And prepared for anything - good or bad.
She'd driven her car until it just gave out.
She had enough for a bus ticket
but she hitchhiked the last hundred miles instead.
She was lucky.
A nice guy drove her across that
wide, flat, swampy stretch of highway.
When they parted, he told her he was gay.
She got a job waitressing.
She served pina coladas, fried conch
and key lime pie to tourists.
She tanned on her off-days.
Lying on the beach,
she could look up in the sky
and see mortarboard and tassel
sprout wings, fly over the horizon.
Sure, she stagnated.
But the tips were good.
And the apartment she shared
with two other women
had a great view of the ocean.
I'm calling her now
to tell her that her father's very sick
and could she come see him -
he'd love that - before he passes.
I'm writing this as the phone is ringing.
I was hoping this would be a very short poem
but it's almost a whole page already.
_________________________________________________________________
Anna Left Home
by John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident who recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Lost Pilots. The latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert”, and “Memory Outside the Head”, are available through Amazon. Work is upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa, and Doubly Mad.
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