Two Of Us At The Sistine Chapel By John Grey

                        TWO OF US AT THE SISTINE CHAPEL                      

 
So love is less
in your thoughts these days
than the mighty thrust
of God’s power.
Your head is in the heavens,
mine’s mesmerized by body parts.
Poor old Michelangelo,
such an ugly pug,
his nose so flattened
the historians tell us,
that his forehead
overhung those unfortunate nostrils.
You stare in awe up at
the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.
Let me tell you,
Michelangelo didn’t acquire
that crunched-up look
from swinging too close
to the vaulting.
Some thug smashed it,
shattered the bone and cartilage,
while Michelangelo was a mere boy.
And besides which,
how many days is it
since we last made love.
Who would have thought
that all the beauty of Rome
would turn you celibate.
"Not now dear,
we’re going to see the Pope tomorrow."
That’s the best excuse
I’ve heard since the headache was invented.
Your thoughts are holy frescoes
while mine are weary
homilies to that poor homely painter.
What woman would
strip naked for such
an uninviting countenance?
Your creator resonates within.
Mine stares sadly
in the mirror,
goes without.

 

JOHN GREY: Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant,  Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in  Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.