Dearest

Not borne off by a broomstick,
As one might expect,
But by a car, the wife has gone,
And, in her wake, the frenzied
Air is calm. She rises like
A whirlwind, and fumes
And curses bitterly, and runs
A gauntlet of distractions
On her way toward the door.
I wave goodbye, good riddance,
Really. Then I start to tidy up
The little messes she has made,
And, afterward, I have some
Coffee, and I start to steel
Myself to withstand her return.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 41 times
Written on 2019-01-21 at 15:17

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