In Acapulco

There's an image in the mirror
Opposite the bed, the one of two
Inside this motel room that we
Have shared. It is the sister
Of my wife. She's sitting up,
Still lovely, though she's fifty.
She is looking sad, and also
Looking down at me. We've
Slept together. That is all.
There was no sex. I wish
There'd been, but that's
Not something I can do
These days. Awake, I look
At her. She says, “I don't
Want you to die,” and I
Respond, “That isn't up to me.”
We dress, and, hand in hand,
Go aimlessly through Acapulco,
Stop somewhere for enchiladas
For our breakfast. Then, we
Strip to swimming suits, and
Head out toward the beach.
We lay together, hand in hand.
We rise to wade into the surf,
And I, so pleased to have her
With me, want to tell her
I won't die, but that's not
Something I can do. I say,
Instead, how much I love her,
Say how glad I am we're here,
And hold her close, and hope
She understands that we are
Fine for now. There is no reason
For her to be sad about what
Hasn't come.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 68 times
Written on 2016-12-08 at 00:56

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