Closing Time

Lights Out

I've gotten to be like a house
In a third world city with power
That comes and goes. My head
Aches, my hands are constantly
Cold. My mind wanders off.
I forget what I'm doing.
Sometimes, I stagger. I feel
Like I'm dying, and, if that is
So, I know I'm not someone
Worth trying to save. Turn off
The light switch. Walk out
The door. Get plywood and
Board up the home.


Not Even a Footnote

“Bernice, we'll start the service now.”
The pastor will extol the virtues of her
Mediocre man, a pol, a list of things
He did, and she was there for all of it,
The plans and projects, fine ideas,
Which often as not she had whispered
To him in the kitchen as she made
The coffee she would serve to those
Around the table, men, who'd bend
The world to their will. Her man is dead.
The heads of those behind, the husbands
And their wives, nod to her man's
Proclaimed achievements. She will be his
Grieving widow, never seen as more
Than that, the one who came to serve
The coffee, smiling, saying, “nice to see
You,” no one of significance. The truth
Will end up buried with the man, his
Legacy intact. Hers will shrivel.
She's Bernice, the one who was with him.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 72 times
Written on 2016-10-24 at 01:36

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