Done

Perhaps I will be done with you
When I get home. You've been
More sow's ear than silk purse
For me for two long years.
Why should I care if you still
Love me if you fear someone
Will know? Why should I pity you
For burrowing into a dismal life?
There's someone else who's
More forthcoming, someone who
Is not the cold and distant moon.
She is radiant, a sun, and, though
I rarely get to see her, how often do
I see you, oh purse who turned back
Into ear? I'll call her purse, as she
Bears gifts, and leave you for the dogs.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 90 times
Written on 2017-10-08 at 01:15

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