The Parakeet Dreams

Roughneck

Once, when I worked on the Bakken Shale,
In the god-awful heat of late July, the clouds
Clotted up, and it started to rain, and I
Watched the drops make channels on
The windows of my pickup truck. The
Dull brown dust was washed away
In places. I took off my hat, and let
The rain fall onto me, and, cooled at last,
And almost human, I looked out across
The emptiness of western North Dakota.
Later, when the sun returned, I went
Back to setting chain, less a human
Than machine, and, when the sun
Had gotten low, I drove toward my
Motel room, stopping at a grocery
Store for one more bag of take-out
Chicken, one more night alone,
A million miles from anywhere
Like home; machine, I guess,
Almost insensate, feeling only rain.


Sybarite

I shall dedicate myself to only
Apprehending pretty things. I'll gaze
Out at the fields below. I'll read
Sir Philip Sydney, and I'll listen to
Discordant music as I'm leafing through
My books of paintings by Juan Gris
And Stuart Davis, Jackson Pollock,
Constable. I'll fly to sunny beaches,
Where I'll bake so long as there is light,
And take in sculpture gardens. I'll eat
Pizza. I'll go into cities just to drift among
The crowds on sidewalks on their ways
To work. I'll breathe the diesel-scented
Air, and, as I gather in all these,
My life will slowly ebb away. I'll die
At last. By then, I hope I'll have
Forgotten one who is the prettiest
Of things.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 49 times
Written on 2017-01-30 at 00:15

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