Khrushchev

The day transpires as metaphor: rainy
And cold, and dismal, late November,
And too much like what the observer's
Mind believes about itself. A heart,
The mind's, beats wrong and fiercely.
Death, the cardiologist explains, is not
So far away. The daylight hours are
Not long these days. The plans, drawn
Up before the fall, are flawed. The
Pounding heart is Khrushchev, shoe
Held in his hand. He bashes it upon
A lectern before milk-sop diplomats.
My own, my shoe, says this to me:
“We'll die. There's nothing to be done,”
So, I retreat. I am not Khrushchev.
I am milksop staring at a staircase
That has humbled me. The graveyard
Makes a decent home. The future's
Not of any use. The heart which
Pounds will, soon enough, explode,
And then the lights will dim, and I
Will wander into what will constitute
An afterlife, dead, as if I am a leaf,
A thing sent skidding over pavement,
Symbol, subject of an autumn
Metaphor which is my life.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2016-11-23 at 01:38

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