For Want of Grit

The oyster cannot work without an irritant.
It needs the noisome grain of sand to make
The pearl everybody wants, the object giving
It some meaning, beyond being food, and,
Really, what thing isn't food? I am.
I have been consumed on several levels,
Certainly. Mosquitoes take their
Shares of me, and biting flies, and women
Who, however briefly, want someone
To prove to them that they have meaning.
Lovely creatures, grains of sand, they
Irritate this oyster so that pearls tumble out.
Lately, I've no irritants, and, thus, I can't
Produce for you. This bivalve slumbers under
Water, overworked somewhat, I'd say, but,
Otherwise, a little too at ease.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 75 times
Written on 2016-08-02 at 00:23

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