December

Now, the frozen winter days, the troglodyte's
Existence, dashing desperately from cave to cave
In quickly fading light. Now, the memories of her
And warmth, of strolling arm in arm, essentially
Oblivious to what brings tourists to Paris
(Pronounced without the "s") becoming dim
As 4:00 pm. She's still in France. I'm in
Nebraska. Winds sweep down from Canada
To tear my unprotected skin. How often does
She think of me? No doubt, not half so often
As I do of her when I'm in bed alone again,
And doomed stay so as I face these
Frozen winter days.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-12-04 at 16:49

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