Mr. Good Cheer

The hobbyist poets maunder. Most are
Morose. I read them, anyway; quid
Pro quo, as they read me. At some
Point I get up. I'm bored. I pass
The mirror in the hallway, and I see
Within it some old man, who's
Haggard, looking back. He's not
The one I used to be. Who hung
Those satchels from his eyes?
Who taught him how to heave
That way? Has he forgotten how
To breathe? What is there in that
Haggard face which signals his
Passivity? He's going to die.
He's going to die!, and yet there's
No sign that he cares. He passes
Out of sight in time, and I pour
Up another coffee, turn back
To the hobby poets and their
Brittle discontents. My journey
Leaves me out of breath. Even so,
I'd rather not be as they are: morose.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 82 times
Written on 2016-12-16 at 00:13

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