Covert Displays of Affection at the Back of the Klan Rally

Not Yet Spring

The sun's late rays turn the river
To molten metal. It shimmers
Through barren trees. The days
Aren't so dark as they long had
Been. A light breeze blows
Something akin to contentment.
Two winters are ending, without
And within, but the trees will stay
Leafless, the ground will be cold,
Until she has been smelted
From me.


Suzanne

A message arrives, out of the blue,
From a woman I've loved, off and on,
Since sometime after I married her
Sister. She wishes I'd visit. I think
That I should, and I scheme to take
Days off. I look for a ticket. I see
Myself standing again on her deck
In the dark early morning before
She must work. I am smoking.
She isn't. She doesn't these days.
She is thicker and grayer, but
Still is quite lovely. She smiles,
And I do. We talk about nothing,
She gets up to dress. We both
Come inside, as the rain has
Returned. There, it always is
Raining. I sit in the dim light
Of her little kitchen, on my
Computer. I'm reading the news.
She bustles in, dressed up and
Made up, and says there is
Plenty to eat; she'll be back
By three. She tells me goodbye,
Turns the corner, then turns back,
And says that she's glad that I came.
In the subsequent silence, I'll think
Of the woman who haunts me at
Home. Lost in herself, she cannot
Love me. I, too, will be glad that
I came.


Trump

It was better when you could say, “niggers,”
And “beaners,” and fags were fags, and
The girls in the office brought coffee and
Laughed when you stroked their legs.
It was better to be young at the top of
The heap. All of these others have grown
So indignant. They've gotten important.
They're over you now, and you're apt
To be fired if anyone other than your
Oldest friends hears you use the old
Names. Your hair's gotten thinner.
You pant climbing stairs. Through
Your bifocals, everything seems to be
Ruined. Perhaps not forever; a man's
On the stage, and he's shouting to you
And the crowd all around that he'll
Help you to regain your place on the
Heap, and, from there, to go back to
Those names.


Suffocating

The paddy's being drained, and, now, the
Tadpoles in it face a choice: evolve to breathe
The air or die. They're shrewd enough to
Learn to breathe. They'll hop off, frogs,
And still survive. Meanwhile, my own
Paddy dries, the water through which
I once flickered, gone. This fish should
Learn to breathe, but I thrash in the mud
In grief, and wish I was submerged.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 83 times
Written on 2016-03-14 at 02:11

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