Come Sunday Morning

I dream. I'll see her Saturday,
And all my dormant fantasies,
Which lay flat on the ground
For weeks are reinflated. How
They loom and sway. I'll ask
Her how's she's been. She'll
Smile as she did before. I'll
Tell her that I've missed her
So, and she'll say that she's
Missed me, too, and we'll
Agree to meet for lunch, to
Talk the way we never did,
And all will be as it once almost
Was. She'll love my love again,
And, this time, love me in return.
We'll meet for lunch forevermore...
In fact, no matter how she feels,
She'll say hello, but little else,
And I will leave her unconvinced
That she gives any thought to me.
My fantasies, deflated, will collapse
Onto the ground again. I'll have
My lunches by myself, and go
Back to adjusting to the truth.
She's gone. We're done.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 65 times
Written on 2016-03-31 at 21:29

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