I’m immersed in high grass
at the side of the road.
All I can remember
is an open car window
and a hand ripping me
from a finger
and tossing me.
Now I’m an unwanted icon
dulled by surrounding greenness.
A squirrel almost had me,
and a crow pecked at my gold.
I’ve suffered through a dawn of severe frost.
Now comes a twilight of encroaching dandelions.
As a symbol,
I was shown around,
wordlessly bragged about.
Now, I’m trash,
not even fit for ant food.
The couple, I expect,
are off to see the marriage counsellor.
Meanwhile, I’m holding out
for a metal detector.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.