(The Other) Saint Lawrence

Like some sainted monk whose name
Is known to hardly anyone, I minister to
Broken souls. They seek me out and
Talk to me. So desperate for recognition,
They go on and on about themselves.
I do not interrupt. They have no
Interest in me, except as someone who
Will listen as they try to make themselves
Important. I know when to nod, to
Offer one-word answers which will
Show them that I'm listening. They
Say their pieces. Then they go.
I do not talk about myself. They're
Broken. They don't want to know,
And, I, a saint, a scholar of the creed
That life is without meaning, see no
Need to try to show them that, in my
Case (as in theirs), that simply can't
Be so.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2016-07-07 at 01:10

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text