Saint Patrick's Day in West Omaha

The mind distills, and, as it does,
It renders what once was unpleasant
Utterly unbearable. My childhood
Home became that way. I could
Not stand to be in it. Its tiny rooms,
Its bric-a-brac, the dreadful woman
Who lived in it, nagging, cringing,
Endlessly reliving aloud instances
Of misremembered derring-do.
I'd scheme to leave before I came,
And here, in this suburban bar with
Walls composed of televisions,
Trashy, bleach-blonde servers,
Girls, not long out of high school,
Feigning friendliness for better
Tips from me. I'm at a sticky
Table with my wife and her
Unpleasant friends, a group of
Aging high-achievers, bent on
Being fun, but failing. I find
Myself drifting here and there
From boring conversation to
The baseball on TV to stillborn
Thoughts of grabbing at the
Nearest server's flabby ass.
The mind's been through such
Wretched evenings often. They
Have been distilled. This latest
Finds me rising, saying I must
Work; I'd better go. Another case
Of what once was unpleasant
Having turned unbearable.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 58 times
Written on 2016-03-17 at 23:42

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