My Trade

I stand outside the cancer center, smoking,
At my chosen trade: agent of disorder
In an otherwise too-perfect world. Trapped
In a suburban dream, the uninspired
Architecture of the doctors' offices, the
Lawns which haven't any weeds, the
Glossy patients, shiny cars, the utter lack
Of signs of nasty nature's cruel will, the
Things which grow and are not wanted,
Heat and cold to bring decay, I drop my
Butt upon the sidewalk, spot a crack
Developing. I stride up to the cancer
Center, pleased. I've seen and sewn
Disorder. It's a lovely day.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2016-05-10 at 17:24

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