I READ IT HERE FIRST
This copy of “Moby Dick” is repulsive.
I left it by the humidifier
and now the pages are like sponge.
I bought that stupid machine
because of this fixation I had
that my skin was drying out.
I never went anywhere.
I didn’t do anything
but sit in the parlor
in all that wretched humidity
while one-legged Ahab
went after that insufferable white whale.
I’d ended up feeling like a stinking orchid.
But you see, I had to do something.
I couldn’t just let myself
crumple up like old parchment.
But now the pages of the novel
are stuck together.
I overreacted as I always do.
In my own way, I was Ahab.
But now, thankfully, I’m Ishmael,
the guy who survives to tell the tale.
I ditched the humidifier.
My skin is just fine.
Now I’ve taken up with yogurt
because of some concern
about not getting enough B12.
Besides, I haven’t read “The Andromeda Strain”
in years.
About the Author: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming
in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.
More By John Grey:
Image Credit: “Stack of Old Books” Chase Dimock
As It Ought To Be 