Sound the Retreat

The light of the castrated autumn sun
Comes in through the window to warm
My floor, and to urge me to go to the city
Again. I love this fine old home in the
Country, but hate the suburb across
The street, and hate the bars with their
Countless TVs, and the people inside
Them, colorless cretins, peasants in
Chinos who wouldn't know Wordsworth
From Sylvia Plath, Watteau from Ingres.
The city I go to will have to be old.
I've no use for a world of look-alike
Cubes. I'll steer clear of Chicago
Or Sydney, which, really, is so like
Chicago beneath its cross. I would
Rather go back to Madrid or Rome,
Somewhere with history, somewhere
With flats which have laundry that
Flaps from lines on their balconies,
Bars without TVs, and patrons
In rumpled old suits, who know
Poe from Thomas, and Miro from
Titian, espresso from sweetened tea.
I would like to feel human inside
Of a city, a poet among people
Who understand poets, a man
In a suit with his nicotine hands
At a table outside with an ashtray
And whiskey, warmed by a
Castrated sun.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 55 times
Written on 2016-10-06 at 01:06

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