For Tom
It's getting late, and I am drinking,
Sitting on the deck to see if murk
Will give birth to some rain. One thousand
Things remain undone. The backyard
Lawn's savanna now. The patio's
Torn up and pocked, almost an
Monument to cities everywhere
In Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan,
The places Uncle Sam has gone.
I can't follow. I can't lift my leg and not
Feel searing pain. I sleep. I drink.
I take narcotics in the AM when
I work, and dream of walking
Easily, of ambushing that bastard,
Sam, of mowing that small patch
Of grass, and then retreating
To a chair for rum and Coke,
And reason to be writing poetry.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 34 times
Written on 2018-05-19 at 00:56
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Grasping
The sky's grown murky. I don't care.It's getting late, and I am drinking,
Sitting on the deck to see if murk
Will give birth to some rain. One thousand
Things remain undone. The backyard
Lawn's savanna now. The patio's
Torn up and pocked, almost an
Monument to cities everywhere
In Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan,
The places Uncle Sam has gone.
I can't follow. I can't lift my leg and not
Feel searing pain. I sleep. I drink.
I take narcotics in the AM when
I work, and dream of walking
Easily, of ambushing that bastard,
Sam, of mowing that small patch
Of grass, and then retreating
To a chair for rum and Coke,
And reason to be writing poetry.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 34 times
Written on 2018-05-19 at 00:56
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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