Over and Over

One is trained to make the same mistakes over and over.
I try to do this with flair. I love, but always the impossible
Woman. I fulminate. Nobody hears my plaint. I tell myself
As I haul pallets of paper and cat litter that I am one
Of those guys, those lunatic New World autodidacts,
Like Poe or Whitman, or Ives or Ryder, who is doomed
To soldier on in the darkness until he is dead. Afterward,
Someone will see what he's done, and the afterlife, which
Is not his to ponder, glows golden with praise; he is part
Of the canon. Hosannas rise to the rafters from those
Sorts of doctoral scholars who once had accused him
Of being a hack, a poseur, or worse. Another mistake;
I'm a guy going nowhere, impotently outraged, in love
With a precious young woman he'll never be able to have.
Mistakes must be made, and made over and over,
At best with some flair, sometimes not.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 35 times
Written on 2018-10-31 at 23:44

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