Goodbye

I move. I've become crippled now.
See how I wince as I attempt
To navigate the living room.
Are you supposed to comfort me?
Don't you have other things to do?
The baby needs your help, and I,
By rights, should do as it is said
That aging Eskimos will do:
Say they are done with village life,
And wander out onto the ice
To ride the floes and contemplate
The featurelessness of their lives.
The polar bears may come to stare.
The fucking gulls will make objections.
Slowly hunger, with it, cold, will
Dull the mind and bring the head
To rest upon a bed of ice. Life is done.
The village, you, the baby, thrive,
And I, as custom says I should,
Will have whispered my goodbyes,
And ceased to move.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 89 times
Written on 2018-03-02 at 02:20

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