Relative Density

Corrine is right, I tell myself
When she has gone and I am
Sitting, thinking as some reedy
Tenor spills his guts in stereo.
Said tenor could be me, except
He's one-third of my age, or less.
He's her age, and he's lost his love,
A woman, from the sound of
Things, who treated him much
Better than that wretched girl
Treated me. She wanted love.
She loved my love, but never
Had much use for me, and,
When my love, or I, or both,
Became inconvenient, she
Stopped speaking, and she
Disappeared. She's come
Back, but she's very rude,
And when I hear her talk
To others, I can't help but
Think that she is as Corrine
Described her: immature,
A little girl, not someone
Who's worth my love,
And, at this point, I start
And sit up. She's not worth
One-third of someone who was
Here an hour ago. I grab my
Phone and dial up Corrine.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 73 times
Written on 2017-01-23 at 22:55

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