Slippers Instead of Hiking Boots

I suppose we'd both be better off if I exalted,
Crooning. “Join me, reader, as I make my way
Through mists toward a summit, and its
Yawning precipice. I'll leap into the great
Abyss, the frothing, rushing waters in it
Bearing me away to...where? Oh, you know,
Somewhere so dramatic that you, reader,
Will begin to feel as if you're going to swoon,
And I, as writer, likewise, will grow drunk
On my own words. Alas,we can't be so well
Off, as I'm the poet of the mundane: days
Which will not end at home, a damned
Arthritic aching hip, the drink which is what
Gets me drunk, and sends me nowhere near
A summit or a deep abyss, but only into
Bed to sleep, and, later, off to work.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 44 times
Written on 2017-12-03 at 00:17

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